THE-HEART-OF-THE-DOCTOR 


mm  m 


MARGARET  IN  THE   NORTH  END  (Page  250) 


THE  HEART  OF  THE 
DOCTOR 

&  £torp  of  tf>e  Italian  Quarter 

BY 

MABEL  G.  FOSTER 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

£bc  ttincrsi&c  press,  Cambribjje 
1902 


COPYRIGHT,  1902,  BY   MABEL   G.   FOSTER 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


Published  October,  zgoz 


AD  UN  BUON  AMICO 

CHE  8UL  VKCCHIO  COLLE 

COOPERO  A  FAR  MEMORABHJ 

QUEI  OIOBNI  FELICI  E  PAB8ATL 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  A  WAIF  AND  AN  IDLEK 1 

EL.  THE  STOLEN  PATIENTS 13 

HE.  A  WRONG  DIAGNOSIS 28 

IV.  A  READING  FROM  BYRON         ....  42 

V.  THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOVE      ....  55 

VL  THE  SPANISH  DOCTOB 66 

VII.  RENUNCIATION 76 

Vin.  A  WRECKED  LIFE 93 

IX.  Guroo  MASCARO'S  MABIA 103 

X.  A  HEART  SPECIALIST 114 

XL  DR.  RAYMOND'S  MISTAKE 124 

XII.  BONDAGE 130 

XHI.  SCARABINI'S  DEFEAT 138 

XIV.  THE  NURSE  OF  DOMINIQUE      ....  147 

XV.  A  WORD  OF  WARNING         ,        ....  161 

XVI.  CELESTIA'S  ELOPEMENT 171 

XV11.  THE  FEAST  OF  RECONCILIATION  ....  176 

XVIII.  A  MEETING  OF  THE  LADY-BOARD    .        .        .  188 

XIX.  THE  DREAM  OF  A  HOME 197 

XX.  THE  PLOT  IN  THE  ALLEY        ....  211 

XXI.  AN  EAVESDROPPER  IN  CHINATOWN     .        .        .  222 

XXII.  GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  MAN        .        .       .  230 

XXm.  THE  CRY  OF  THE  PEOPLE 240 

XXIV.  AT  THE  END  OF  THE  PIEK  247 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 


CHAPTER  I 
A  WAIF  AND  AN  IDLER 

SPRING  HILL  STREET  begins  at  the  square  in 
front  of  the  church  of  Santa  Maria,  runs  over  the 
crest  of  an  ancient  hill,  and  plunges  down  to  the 
noisy  thoroughfare  on  the  west.  At  the  crown  of 
the  hill  is  the  burying-ground,  with  its  trees,  its 
weather-worn  stones,  its  matchless  view  of  the  busy 
harbor. 

Years  ago  this  hill  was  the  fashionable  part  of 
town,  and  traces  of  former  elegance  may  still  be 
seen  in  occasional  colonial  doorways  and  slant 
roofs,  while  here  and  there,  in  the  lanes  and  by- 
ways, a  lilac  tree,  the  last  of  some  patrician  hedge- 
row, tosses  its  languorous  perfume  in  the  smiling 
face  of  each  May  sky. 

But  the  grandeur  of  Spring  Hill  is  gone,  and  if 
the  spirits  of  dead  aristocrats  have  hovered  above 
the  old  graves,  it  has  been  their  fate  to  see  the 


2  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

passing  of  damask  and  brocade  and  the  incoming 
of  new  peoples  from  beyond  the  sea.  The  march 
of  the  foreign  invasion  has  been  continuous,  and 
to-day  may  be  seen  in  the  winding  streets  and 
shadowy  alleys  the  picturesque  life  of  a  dozen 
Italian  provinces. 

A  man  climbed  the  five  stone  steps  which  inter- 
vene between  the  street  and  the  burying-ground. 
He  was  not  old,  yet  he  looked  decrepit,  and  his 
hair  was  gray.  At  the  top  of  the  steps  he  paused 
and  looked  about  him  irresolutely.  Brady,  the 
custodian  of  the  yard,  always  on  the  lookout  for 
sight-seers,  discovered  the  newcomer  in  an  instant, 
and  leaving  the  group  of  loungers  gathered  near 
the  fountain,  he  came  briskly  forward. 

"  Like  to  see  the  stones,  sir  ?  "  he  asked,  in  his 
half  respectful  tone. 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  stranger,  nervously,  "  er  .  .  . 
that  is  ...  no,  no.  I  'm  not  interested.  I  'm 
waiting  for  some  one  ...  if  there 's  no  objection." 

"  None  in  the  world,"  replied  Brady,  in  the  tone 
of  patient  tolerance  cultivated  by  long  contact 
with  an  irresolute  public.  "  Jest  make  yourself  at 
home.  There  's  benches  'n'  plenty  uv  fresh  water. 
The  oldest  stone  is  down  this  path ;  date  1645  — 
David  Perkins,  and  Patience,  his  wife." 


A  WAIF  AND  AN  IDLER  3 

The  man  made  a  deprecatory  gesture. 

"  I  won't  trouble  you,"  he  said.  "  I  '11  sit  down 
over  here,  I  think.  Is  it  late  ?  And  shall  I  have 
to  wait  long?  " 

Brady  scented  some  form  of  lunacy,  and  replied 
in  the  most  soothing  tone  which  could  be  assumed 
by  a  voice  roughened  by  an  out-door  life  of  thirty 
years. 

"  Oh,  no,  not  very  long,  I  should  n't  think.  It 's 
about  three  o'clock  now." 

"  Is  he  usually  very  late  ?  "  queried  the  man, 
his  gaze  wandering  vaguely  toward  the  street. 

"  No,  no,"  reassured  Brady.  "  Who  'd  you  say 
you  were  waiting  for  ?  " 

"  The  young  man  at  the  dispensary  over  there. 
Is  he  often  very  late  ?  " 

A  light  dawned  upon  Brady.  Here  was  evi- 
dently a  case  for  Burroughs,  the  student  interne 
at  St.  Luke's  Charitable  Dispensary.  He  liked 
Burroughs.  It  was  scarcely  a  month  since  the 
young  man  had  brought  him  safely  through  a  siege 
of  neuritis,  and  he  was  therefore  glad  to  put  an 
interesting  case  in  the  student's  way. 

"  You  '11  find  the  doctor  in  his  office  at  three- 
thirty,  sharp.  He  's  never  late,  V  a  better  man 
fer  his  years  you  never  saw.  Can  cure  anything 
from  corns  to  D.  T.'s.  You  'd  better  go  early,  fer 


4  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

crowds  comes  ev'ry  afternoon,  and  it 's  first  come, 
first  served.  He  gives  big  cure  fer  small  pay,  'n' 
ev'rybody  's  treated  alike." 

This  somewhat  astounding  statement  had  no 
effect  upon  the  stranger.  Brady  was  quick  to 
realize  that  his  eloquence  was  wasted. 

"  Half  past  three,"  muttered  the  man,  —  "  half 
past  three  .  .  .  then  I  must  .  .  .  yes ;  it 's  high 
time,  for  I  must  be  at  my  best  when  he  comes.  .  .  . 
See  here,"  he  added,  buttonholing  Brady  and  whis- 
pering confidentially,  "you  go  back  and  talk  to 
your  friends.  Don't  let  me  keep  you.  I  '11  sit 
here  till  I  see  him  coming ;  then  I  '11  step  over.  .  .  . 
I  say  !  do  go.  I  'm  a  bit  nervous  ;  I  don't  like  to 
be  talked  to.  I  'd  rather  be  alone." 

Brady  yielded  to  the  man's  whim  and  rejoined 
the  group  at  the  fountain. 

"  There 's  a  crank  over  there  waitin'  ter  see 
Burroughs.  Guess  I  'd  better  keep  my  eye  on 
him,"  he  said  to  his  companions. 

The  stranger  sat  down  on  a  bench  near  the 
gate.  For  a  while  he  seemed  oblivious  to  his  sur- 
roundings. The  dirty-faced  children,  romping  in 
the  shady  paths,  drew  near  for  a  critical  inspec- 
tion. They  were  used  to  strangers,  for  many 
people  found  their  way  to  this  graveyard,  swal- 
lowed in  the  noise  and  grime  of  the  city's  slum. 


A  WAIF  AND  AN  IDLER  5 

The  children  cried  "Hello,  Mister!"  as  they 
cried  it  to  all  newcomers,  but  he  paid  no  attention 
to  them,  and  soon  they  drifted  away.  At  length 
he  shook  himself  together  and  looked  cautiously 
about  him.  Brady  and  his  following  had  appar- 
ently forgotten  his  existence;  the  children  were 
gone  ;  only  a  lean  cat,  intent  upon  a  solitary  Eng- 
lish sparrow,  crouched  a  few  feet  away. 

Over  on  his  left  was  a  high,  grass-grown  mound 
surrounded  by  a  green  picket  fence.  Any  child  in 
the  neighborhood  would  have  told  him  in  awe- 
stricken  whispers  that  a  dead  horse  was  buried 
there.  It  was  in  fact  the  resting-place  of  unbap- 
tized  babes  who  had  died  more  than  a  century  ago. 
The  stranger  approached  this  mound,  fumbled  in 
his  pocket,  and  took  something  out.  He  stood  for 
a  moment  looking  down  at  his  left  wrist.  Then 
he  turned  and  walked  back  to  his  bench.  Ten 
minutes  later  he  rose,  adjusted  his  hat,  and 
straightened  his  threadbare  necktie.  Then  he 
walked  with  a  firm,  brisk  step  to  where  Brady  and 
his  companions  were  settling  the  affairs  of  church 
and  state.  He  joined  the  group  with  an  air  of 
bon-camaraderie,  exclaiming,  — 

"  A  glorious  day,  gentlemen,  and  good  company, 
unless  your  faces  deceive  me.  Let  me  introduce 
myself:  John  Maxon,  of  nowhere  in  particular, 
and  at  your  service." 


6  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

The  men  eyed  him  suspiciously ;  he  took  no 
notice  of  that,  but  babbled  on. 

"  I  've  just  come  to  town  and  made  straight  for 
this  delightful  locality.  Lots  of  people  here,  gen- 
tlemen, lots  of  people  ;  but  just  one  whom  I  have 
come  to  see.  That 's  Burroughs,  the  doctor  across 
the  way." 

He  looked  slowly  around  the  group,  meeting  the 
gaze  of  each  man  in  turn  without  flinching,  and 
yet  afterward  all  spoke  of  the  odd,  blurred  look  in 
his  eyes,  —  the  look  of  an  intoxicated  person,  yet 
different,  but  in  just  what  way  not  one  of  them 
could  tell. 

"  Do  you  all  know  Burroughs  ?  "  he  asked  after 
a  pause,  the  hilarity  quite  gone  from  his  face. 
The  men  nodded. 

"Tell  me  about  him." 

Brady  acted  as  spokesman. 

"  Is  n't  much  to  tell.  Came  here  in  March,  V 
has  worked  hard  ever  since.  Saved  lots  uv  lives, 
folks  say.  He 's  in  the  Medical  School  up  town, 
'n'  works  here  for  his  board  'n'  lodging.  He  don't 
put  on  no  airs,  'n'  the  folks  round  here  has  got 
ter  setting  great  stock  by  him  already.  They  're 
mostly  Eye-talians.  That 's  about  all  there  is  ter 
tell,  I  guess." 

"  I  will  tell  you  something  more  about  him,  gen- 


A  WAIF  AND  AN  IDLER  7 

tlemen,"  said  the  stranger.  His  tone  was  perfectly 
normal  now.  He  rose  to  his  feet  and  gazed  to- 
ward the  harbor  which  met  the  little  public  park 
on  the  slope  of  the  hill  below  the  graveyard.  He 
drew  a  deep  breath,  with  a  slight  but  sudden  ges- 
ture of  the  hands. 

"  Lord !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  what  a  spot  this  is." 

It  was  mid-afternoon  in  May.  Through  the 
arching  tree-boughs  the  harbor,  alive  with  steam- 
ships, tugs,  and  schooners,  lay  smiling  in  the  sun- 
shine. There  was  a  tang  of  salt  in  the  air,  and 
the  wheeling  gulls  flashed  their  white  wings 
against  the  blue  above  and  the  deeper  blue  below. 
The  prim  little  paths  of  the  graveyard,  flecked 
with  light  and  shade,  echoed  the  rollicking  voices 
of  children.  Along  the  wall  the  Italian  women  in 
their  gay  gowns  and  brilliant  head  scarfs,  chattered 
in  animated  fashion  while  their  stiffly  swaddled 
bambini  pulled  at  their  full  brown  breasts.  The 
sunlight  was  streaming  upon  their  heads,  and  the 
trees  and  distant  brick-red  houses  made  a  back- 
ground Correggio  might  have  loved  to  copy. 

"  Lord !  "  repeated  the  man,  "  what  a  spot  this 
is!" 

His  enthusiasm  awakened  no  response  in  his 
hearers.  They  were  so  accustomed  to  the  scene 
that  it  had  ceased  long  since  to  impress  them. 


8  THE  HEAKT  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  stranger,  turning  once 
more  to  the  group  and  speaking  with  a  sad  dignity, 
"  this  beautiful  scene  moves  me  to  speak  of  some- 
thing which  has  been  long  hidden  in  my  heart. 
Years  ago  I  loved  a  beautiful  woman.  When  I 
asked  her  father's  permission  to  court  her  he  told 
me  that  she  had  been  promised  to  another  in  her 
childhood.  A  strange,  old-fashioned  arrangement, 
surely.  After  a  time  she  married.  About  a  year 
later  she  died.  As  I  was  an  old  friend,  I  went  to 
the  funeral  at  her  husband's  magnificent  country 
estate  many  miles  from  here.  It  was  spring.  The 
fruit  trees  and  lilac  bushes  were  in  bloom.  God ! 
How  the  beauty  of  it  all  hurt  me !  I  saw  her  lying 
in  her  casket  as  stately  as  a  waxen  queen  with  her 
dead  baby  on  her  breast.  At  the  grave,  just  before 
the  casket  was  lowered,  her  little  brother  broke 
from  his  mother's  side  and  cast  himself  sobbing 
across  the  coffin.  I  had  never  taken  much  notice 
of  the  child  before,  but  as  I  saw  his  pale  profile 
against  the  black  casket  I  saw  her  face  in  minia- 
ture, and  when  they  lifted  him  up,  although  he  was 
weeping,  I  saw  that  his  eyes  were  like  hers. 

"  That  night  I  left  America  and  began  years  of 
wandering.  I  met  adventures  and  I  saw  poverty. 
But  throughout  all  my  experiences  I  was  resolved 
that  some  day  I  would  return  and  bestow  upon  that 


A  WAIF  AND  AN  IDLER  9 

boy  the  love  I  had  borne  his  sister  ;  an  idle  fancy, 
perhaps,  but  nevertheless  I  cherished  it.  A  week 
ago  I  drifted  back  to  the  old  scenes  only  to  learn 
that  the  parents  were  dead,  their  fortune  wrecked, 
and  that  my  love's  brother  was  in  this  city  strug- 
gling to  secure  a  medical  education.  The  man  I 
am  talking  about  is  Burroughs." 

The  stranger  paused  while  his  hearers  shifted 
uneasily  upon  the  benches  and  looked  wonderingly 
at  each  other  and  at  him.  After  a  moment  he 
continued :  — 

"  See,  now,  gentlemen,  how  the  matter  stands. 
I  have  come  back  a  poor  man,  without  position  or 
friends,  broken  in  health  and  dependent  upon  .  .  . 
medicine  .  .  .  very  dependent.  Now  when  the 
boy  needs  help,  friends,  everything,  I  can  do  no- 
thing for  him.  To-day  I  have  resolved  to  see  him 
and  to  tell  him  what  I  have  told  you.  He  will  at 
least  accept  my  good  intentions.  More  than  that 
I  cannot  offer.  I  am  a  feeble  man,  a  wreck  before 
my  time  ...  a  wanderer,  an  outcast  .  .  .  Oh, 
my  God !  " 

His  voice  had  risen  to  a  wail  and  he  was  trem- 
bling. He  sank  upon  a  neighboring  bench  and  his 
head  rested  upon  his  breast.  The  men  around  the 
fountain  were  very  still.  They  had  been  strangely 
moved  by  this  man's  story,  a  story  so  foreign  in  its 


10      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

delicacy  and  pathos  to  anything  they  had  known 
in  their  coarse  lives.  Yet  they  were  nonplussed 
by  the  frankness  with  which  the  confession  had 
been  made  and  did  not  know  what  to  say,  until 
O  'Connell,  the  one-legged  man,  searching  for 
something  to  say,  exclaimed,  — 

"  See,  sir,  your  wrist  is  bleeding." 

The  stranger  pushed  up  the  left  sleeve  of  his 
coat  and  looked  at  his  arm.  There  was  a  small 
white  lump  upon  the  inside  of  the  wrist  like  that 
caused  by  the  sting  of  an  insect.  In  the  centre  of 
the  spot  was  the  mark  of  a  tiny  incision  from  which 
a  drop  of  blood  was  oozing.  Other  drops  had  evi- 
dently preceded  this  one  and  the  coat  sleeve  had 
smeared  them  up  and  down  the  wrist. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  said  the  man,  quickly,  —  "  no- 
thing, I  assure  you,  gentlemen.  A  pin  prick  ;  no- 
thing more.  Pray  do  not  be  alarmed." 

He  rose  unsteadily  and  held  out  his  hand  to 
Brady. 

"  Good-by,  good-by,"  he  said,  plaintively.  "  You 
have  been  very  kind.  I  will  sit  by  the  gate  and 
watch  for  my  young  friend.  Half  past  three,  you 
said  ?  It  must  be  nearly  that  time  now.  Good-by, 
gentlemen,  good-by." 

He  shambled  down  the  path  with  hanging  head, 
and  finding  his  seat  near  the  entrance,  peered 


A  WAIF  AND  AN  IDLER  11 

through  the  iron  fence  of  the  yard  at  the  dingy 
brick  front  of  St.  Luke's  Dispensary. 

"  Holy  mother  of  Mary !  "  cried  Dolan,  as  soon 
is  the  man  was  out  of  earshot,  "  what 's  the  matter 
with  him?" 

"  He  's  got  the  D.  T.'s,  I  believe,"  said  McCar- 
thy. His  opinion  had  great  weight,  for  he  had  ex- 
perienced delirium  tremens  seven  times  and  could 
give  the  medical  fraternity  valuable  points  in 
diagnosis. 

"  Maybe,  maybe,"  said  Brady,  wagging  his  head 
sagely,  "  but  I  think  more  likely  he  's  looney." 

"  Why  the  deuce  did  he  tell  us  that  yarn  ? " 
queried  Smith.  "  We  're  nothin'  ter  him,  er  he  ter 
us.  That 's  a  queerer,  ter  start  on." 

"  Oh,  I  tell  yer,  he  's  looney,"  returned  Brady, 
conclusively.  "  See  how  scairt  he  wuz  at  first  'n' 
then  he  spurted  up  'n'  acted  like  a  gentleman  'n' 
then  slumped  down  agen.  He  's  plain  off  his  head, 
I  say." 

"  Then  you  'd  orter  call  the  cop,"  said  Dolan. 
"  'T  ain't  safe  ter  have  him  loose.  Might  up  'n' 
shoot  the  doctor,  fer  all  his  talk  about  lovin'  him." 

"  I  won't  do  nothin'  about  gettin'  him  pulled  in," 
said  Brady.  "  It 's  not  in  my  job.  That  was  a 
yarn  he  told,  anyhow.  He  's  harmless.  If  I  sent 
fer  the  cop  ev'ry  time  a  crank  come  in  this  here 


12      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

yard,  I  'd  be  runnin'  my  legs  off  from  mornin'  'tel 
night.  There  would  n't  be  no  sidewalk  'tween  here 
'n'  Station  Eight ;  I  'd  a-hoofed  it  off  long  ago,  'n' 
none  er  you  blokes  would  be  at  large,  neither." 

The  men  laughed,  as  Brady  expected  they  would, 
for  he  was  an  autocrat  in  a  small  way  with  his 
modest  following. 

Just  then  the  clock  on  the  church  of  Santa 
Maria  chimed  the  half  .hour,  and  O'Connell,  look- 
ing toward  the  street,  exclaimed,  — 

"  There  comes  the  doctor !  " 

But  the  man  at  the  gate  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  STOLEN  PATIENTS 

THE  low-ceiled  waiting  room  of  St.  Luke's  was 
crowded  that  afternoon.  The  breeze  which  blew 
in  at  the  open  window  was  too  languid  to  freshen 
the  vitiated  atmosphere  in  which  the  patient  herd 
of  Italian  men,  women,  and  children  awaited  their 
interviews  with  the  student  interne.  Sometimes  a 
swaddled  bambino  gave  vent  to  his  feelings  in  a 
doleful  wail.  Now  and  then  two  women,  with  gold 
earrings  dangling  nearly  to  their  shoulders,  ex- 
changed a  few  words  in  a  dialect  almost  unintelli- 
gible to  a  high  class  Italian.  For  the  most  part, 
however,  the  room  was  very  quiet,  for  the  dispen- 
sary was  an  awesome  place  to  these  simple  people, 
and  the  doctor  a  sort  of  demigod  whose  practice  of 
medicine  was  a  mystery  unapproachable. 

At  length  the  silence  was  broken.  The  office 
door  was  opened  quickly,  an  Italian  in  corduroys, 
his  hand  neatly  bandaged,  emerged  and  made  his 
way  to  the  street.  Then  the  interne  appeared  in 
the  low  doorway  and  uttered  his  oft-repeated  call, 
"  Next  patient !  " 


14      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

A  woman  rose  timidly  and  went  into  the  office. 
As  the  door  closed  upon  her,  a  brisk  little  Italian, 
well-shaven,  well-dressed,  and  wearing  a  pince-nez 
astride  his  aquiline  nose,  entered  the  waiting  room. 
Turning  now  and  then  to  look  at  the  office  door,  as 
if  to  catch  the  first  intimation  that  it  was  about  to 
be  opened,  he  went  quietly  from  group  to  group 
talking  earnestly  and  with  forceful  gestures.  Some 
of  the  people  shook  their  heads,  but  nearly  all  to 
whom  he  spoke  listened  with  that  look  of  eager 
confidence  which  the  lower  class  Italians  fix  upon 
those  whom  they  consider  their  superiors.  It  is 
much  the  same  look  one  sees  in  the  eyes  of  a  good- 
natured  dog  when  his  master  is  talking  to  him. 
As  soon  as  the  brisk  Italian  had  gone  the  rounds 
of  the  waiting  room  he  went  stealthily  into  the 
street  and  was  immediately  followed  by  nearly  all 
the  occupants  of  the  room.  A  moment  later  the 
student  dismissed  his  patient  and  paused  with  the 
well-known  words  of  summons  unspoken. 

"  Hello !  "  he  exclaimed  instead,  "  where  are  my 
patients  ?  " 

A  very  small  boy  with  very  big  black  eyes  rose 
to  explain  that  they  had  gone  with  an  Italian  S  ig- 
nore who  knew  a  better  doctor. 

"  H'm,"  said  Burroughs  to  himself ;  "  the  emis- 
sary of  that  Spanish  quack.  Spanish !  From  the 


THE  STOLEN  PATIENTS  15 

west  bank  of  the  Jordan,  I  fancy.  He  'd  better 
look  out  how  he  sends  that  whipper-snapper  to 
interfere  with  my  practice.  Next  patient !  " 

Those  who  were  left  rose  in  a  body.  There  was 
a  man,  a  woman,  and  several  children  of  various 
sizes.  These  people  usually  go  in  family  parties  to 
consult  the  physician,  and  the  student,  being  used 
to  the  phenomenon,  asked  at  once,  — 

"  Which  of  you  is  sick  ?  " 

With  one  accord  they  pointed  to  the  child 
which  the  woman  carried  in  her  arms. 

"  'Er  ver'  seek-a.  She  leg-a  'urt-a.  She  back 
'urt-a.  Mia  madre  say  you-a  mek-a  vell-a.  Ve 
come-a  Italia  seex  mont'.  I  talk-a  Inglese,  see! 
You-a  tell-a  me-a,  I  tell-a  'eem-a." 

"The  father  and  mother  may  come  in,"  said  the 
student,  decisively.  "The  interpreter  is  out,  so 
you  may  come,  boy,  to  do  the  talking.  The  rest 
stay  here." 

At  a  word  from  the  boy  the  younger  children 
subsided  sadly,  and  the  others  went  into  the  office. 
Burroughs  made  a  long  examination  of  the  little 
limbs  and  back ;  then  he  consulted  his  books,  as 
student-doctors  sometimes  find  it  wise  to  do.  After 
a  few  moments'  thought  he  looked  gravely  at  the 
big-eyed  boy. 

"  Listen  carefully,  my  lad,"  he  said,  "  and  tell 


16  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

your  father  just  what  I  say.  Your  sister  must  go 
to  the  hospital  and  have  an  operation  performed 
on  her  back.  If  she  goes  she  can  be  made  well. 
Tell  it  straight ;  be  sure." 

While  he  was  speaking  the  parents'  eyes  had 
been  glued  upon  Burroughs's  face.  Now  they 
looked  eagerly  at  their  interpreter.  The  boy  must 
have  repeated  the  message  correctly,  for  at  his 
words  the  man  and  woman  looked  aghast,  and  they 
gestured  wildly  as  they  told  the  boy  what  to  reply. 
At  the  mention  of  the  hospital  the  little  girl  her- 
self began  to  wail,  and  the  children  in  the  waiting- 
room,  hearing  the  cry,  lifted  up  their  voices. 

"Mio  padre  say  bambina  no  go-a  'ospit'l.  'E 
say  'e  teck-a  care-a  bambina.  No  go-a  'ospit'l. 
Bad-a,  bad-a,  bad-a !  " 

Burroughs  argued  long  and  earnestly,  but  the 
Italians  were  unmoved.  They  had  that  inborn 
fear  of  institutions  which  is  peculiar  to  their  class. 
The  mother  soothed  the  little  one's  grief,  and 
replaced  the  untidy  garments  upon  the  wasted 
body.  The  child  had  remarkably  beautiful  blue 
eyes,  inherited  no  one  could  tell  whence,  and  per- 
haps it  was  their  look  of  unexpressed  agony  that 
caused  the  student  to  make  a  last  effort  in  her 
behalf.  It  was  time  wasted.  The  Italians  lapsed 
into  a  stolid  silence,  paid  the  nominal  fee  of  ten 


THE  STOLEN  PATIENTS  17 

cents  required  by  the  directors  of  the  dispensary, 
and  withdrew,  taking  their  numerous  progeny. 

"A  lamb  sacrificed  to  stupidity,"  mused  Bur- 
roughs when  they  were  gone.  "  But  I  'm  glad  they 
did  n't  fall  into  that  Spaniard's  trap.  There 's  no 
knowing  what  tomfoolery  he  would  have  led  them 
into,  or  what  he  would  have  charged  them." 

The  Italians  with  their  retinue  of  little  ones  had 
scarcely  turned  the  corner  of  the  street  before  the 
dapper  henchman  of  the  Spanish  doctor  joined 
them.  He  saw  their  excitement,  and  overheard 
enough  of  their  conversation  to  learn  that  the  hos- 
pital and  an  operation  had  been  suggested. 

"Why  did  you  go  to  that  dispensary?"  he 
asked,  suavely,  in  Italian.  "  You  have  to  wait  a 
long  time  for  your  turn,  and  that  young  fellow  is 
not  a  doctor.  A  poor  nobody,  he  is,  who  is  trying 
to  learn  how  to  be  a  doctor.  He  comes  here  to 
practice  on  the  poor  Italian  people  because  he 
thinks  you  will  never  know  how  many  mistakes  he 
makes.  He  has  told  you  to  take  the  little  child  to 
a  hospital,  it  is  probable.  Yes  !  That  is  because 
he  does  not  know  what  to  do  for  her.  An  opera- 
tion, you  say  ?  It  is  absurd.  The  good  doctor  of 
whom  I  told  you  will  cure  without  an  operation. 
He  will  give  a  large  bottlef ul  of  the  finest  of  medi- 
cine. And  the  little  child  will  be  well  at  once. 


18     THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

No  hospital,  no  operation.  See,  here  is  the  place. 
Come!" 

He  smiled  as  benignly  as  the  wolf  in  the  fable, 
and  led  them  up  the  steps  of  the  Spanish  doctor's 
office.  They  followed  him  like  a  flock  of  silly 
sheep  with  their  one  little  lamb  which  was  to  be 
sacrificed. 

That  evening  Burroughs  entertained  company  in 
the  office  of  the  dispensary.  Kaymond,  his  guest, 
had  been  a  junior  in  the  medical  school  when 
Burroughs  was  a  freshman,  and  for  some  reason 
the  big,  handsome  upper  classman  had  taken  a 
fancy  to  the  new  student  whose  shyness  and 
reserve  prevented  him  from  being  one  of  the  lead- 
ers of  his  class.  Burroughs  was  now  completing 
his  junior  year,  and  Raymond,  who  was  well  estab- 
lished in  an  uptown  practice,  had  proposed  his 
friend  as  interne  at  St.  Luke's,  and  sometimes  left 
his  snug  office  to  lend  a  hand  in  the  work  at  the 
dispensary. 

To-night  his  visit  was  purely  a  social  one,  and 
he  had  brought  his  guitar.  He  sat  with  his  feet  a 
trifle  higher  than  was  necessary  and  picked  lazily 
at  his  instrument.  Raymond's  well-shaped  hands 
showed  to  great  advantage  when  fingering  the 
orange-fronted  guitar,  as  no  one  knew  better  than 
their  owner.  Burroughs,  with  his  hands  thrust  in 


THE  STOLEN  PATIENTS  19 

his  pockets,  sat  tilted  against  the  wall  in  an  uncom- 
promisingly stiff -backed  chair,  and  he  beamed  upon 
his  friend  with  that  look  of  hopeless  admiration 
which  a  quiet,  plodding  fellow  feels  toward  a  bril- 
liant comrade. 

The  room  was  so  small  that  it  seemed  quite  full 
of  men.  It  was  an  odd,  shabby  place.  The  walls 
were  hung  with  dull  green  paper ;  there  was  an 
office  desk  with  a  double  row  of  medical  books 
above  it ;  an  operating-table,  and  an  air-tight  stove, 
the  latter  always  surmounted  by  a  tea  kettle. 
Since  La  Signorina,  the  interpreter  nurse,  had  per- 
suaded Burroughs  not  to  keep  his  blacking-brushes 
on  the  mantel  behind  the  stove,  that  useful  place 
was  decorated  with  an  austere  row  of  medicine  bot- 
tles, and  presented  the  appearance  of  a  diminutive 
pharmacy. 

Over  the  mantel  was  a  large  picture.  It  repre- 
sented a  handsome  Saint  Bernard  in  the  close 
embrace  of  a  little  child.  "  Kid  with  a  Dog," 
Burroughs  called  it.  On  the  corner  of  the  frame 
was  a  jointed  mulatto  doll  holding  a  pink  bonbon 
in  her  hands.  She  was  an  old  occupant  of  the 
office,  placed  there  for  the  entertainment  of  chil- 
dren, but  Burroughs  said  Kaymond  was  the  only 
child  who  ever  played  with  her. 

In  this  room,  once  a  month,  the  board  of  lady- 


20      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

managers  met  and  laid  plans  as  to  what  they 
would  do  when  St.  Luke's  new  building  was  con- 
structed. In  the  mean  time,  Burroughs  and  La 
Signorina,  making  the  best  of  their  limited  facili- 
ties, drew  about  them  an  ever-increasing  clientele 
of  Italian  people  who  believed  in  them  for  their 
honest  dealing  and  unfailing  faithfulness. 

The  two  men  sat  without  conversation  for  a 
time.  Burroughs  was  not  skillful  at  setting  the 
ball  rolling,  and  Raymond  was  absorbed  in  his 
efforts  on  the  guitar.  At  length,  resting  his  head 
upon  the  comfortable  high  back  of  his  rocker,  he 
thrummed  a  lively  strain  and  began  to  sing  unc- 
tuously the  ballad  of  "Sweet  Rosy  O'Grady." 
Whereat  Burroughs,  who  abhorred  sentimentality, 
tilted  his  face  toward  the  ceiling  and  gave  utter- 
ance to  a  long,  mournful  howl,  like  the  ki-yi  of  a 
disappointed  puppy.  Raymond  ceased  singing  at 
once  and  put  down  his  guitar.  He  always  stopped 
when  Burroughs  resorted  to  extreme  measures. 

"  Well,  what  have  you  been  doing  lately,  old 
man  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  The  usual  things." 

"  Has  anything  funny  happened  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  more  or  less  funny.  Do  you  remember 
Mrs.  Langoni,  the  Irishwoman  married  to  the 
Italian  over  on  Benediction  Alley  ?  She 's  up  to 


THE  STOLEN  PATIENTS  21 

her  old  antics  again.  In  a  dying  condition,  of 
course.  *  I  've  a  pain  in  ivry  pairt  o'  me  body,' 
was  about  all  she  would  say  when  I  called  yester- 
day, excepting  that  she  stopped  groaning  long 
enough  to  sit  up  and  say,  '  Me  throat 's  sore  clare 
down  ter  here.'  And  she  ran  her  finger  from  her 
pharynx  to  her  diaphragm." 

"  She  's  a  sort  of  a  giraffe,  is  n't  she  ?  "  laughed 
Raymond.  "  It 's  hysteria,  I  suppose." 

"  That  is  exactly  what  it  is.  I  told  La  Signor- 
ina  that  if  she  could  manage  to  upset  a  pailful  of 
ice- water  over  her  it  would  do  her  more  good  than 
all  the  medicine  in  the  world." 

"  Who  looks  out  for  her  ?  " 

"  Poor  little  Mamie,  as  usual.  Langoni  is  out 
in  Westerville  working  on  the  new  aqueduct,  and 
Mamie,  besides  taking  care  of  her  mother,  does 
the  cooking  and  the  washing  and  ironing,  carries 
around  the  little  baby,  watches  to  see  that  the 
middle-sized  baby  does  n't  swallow  matches,  and 
that  the  big  baby  does  n't  fall  out  of  the  window. 
It  made  me  very  cross  to  see  her  working  so 
hard." 

"  It  is  rather  hard  on  the  little  girl,"  said  Ray- 
mond, picking  up  his  guitar  once  more  and  thrum- 
ming lightly. 

"  Well,  I  've  put  a  stop  to  it,"  went  on  Bur- 


22      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

roughs,  vigorously.  "  I  went  and  saw  the  truant- 
officer,  and  to-morrow  Miss  Mamie  will  be  whisked 
off  to  school.  Then  her  mother  will  have  to  stop 
groaning  and  go  to  work." 

"  Good  for  you,  Burroughs !  You  are  grasping 
the  situation  down  here  excellently.  What  else 
has  happened  ?  " 

"  I  christened  a  baby  last  night." 

"Ye  gods!" 

"  Yes ;  Razzetti's  wife  begged  me  to  when  she 
found  her  child  could  live  but  a  few  minutes 
after  its  birth.  The  church  allows  any  one  to  do  it 
if  necessary.  There  was  no  time  to  send  for  the 
priest,  and  so  I  did  it." 

"  Well,  what  shall  we  hear  next !  Burroughs, 
you  will  get  famous  in  this  district  if  you  keep  on 
as  you  have  begun." 

"  I  think  not.  And  by  the  way,  that  Spanish 
doctor  drew  off  all  my  patients  this  afternoon. 
Nobody  stayed  but  a  family  with  a  sick  baby  that 
needed  to  go  to  the  hospital.  I  could  not  persuade 
them  to  take  her,  I  'm  sorry  to  say." 

"  These  people  are  extremely  afraid  of  hospitals. 
You  will  meet  that  difficulty  constantly  in  your 
work  here.  And  you  will  encounter  that  '  Span- 
iard '  at  every  turn.  All  the  men  who  have  been 
at  St.  Luke's  since  the  dispensary  was  established 


THE  STOLEN  PATIENTS  23 

have  had  to  fight  him,  and  they  have  usually  been 
beaten." 

"  Well,  he  shall  not  beat  me,"  exclaimed  Bur- 
roughs, with  spirit.  "  I  am  not  down  here  to  do 
missionary  work,  or  because  I  love  the  dear  peo- 
ple —  for  I  don't.  I  am  here  because  I  can  get 
my  board  and  lodging,  and  some  splendid  practical 
experience.  But,  by  the  Lord  Harry !  I  won't 
sit  still  and  see  a  lot  of  poor  fools  duped,  even  if 
they  do  tell  lies,  and  are  horribly  dirty." 

"  You  will  do  well  if  you  can  beat  that  rascal," 
Raymond  said,  earnestly.  "  But  I  warn  you  against 
that  Italian  who  works  for  him.  It  is  said  that 
the  fellow  represents  some  powerful  secret  society, 
and  that  the  common  people  are  afraid  of  him.  I 
beg  of  you,  be  on  your  guard,  for  I  have  no  mind 
to  have  you  get  a  knife  in  your  back,  especially 
since  I  advised  you  to  come  here." 

"  Don't  worry  about  me.  I  shall  not  do  enough 
to  get  the  secret  societies  down  on  me." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  If  you  continue  to 
christen  dying  babies  and  spank  living  ones,  you 
will  soon  make  considerable  stir  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. Oh,  yes,"  he  continued,  in  answer  to  Bur- 
roughs's  look  of  inquiry,  "  La  Signorina  has  told 
me  how  you  whip  the  babies  when  they  scream  and 
claw  at  you.  She  says  the  mothers  say  to  their 


24      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

children  now,  l  Be  good,  or  I  '11  call  the  doctor  to 
lick  you.'  " 

"  I  '11  get  even  with  La  Signorina  for  telling 
tales  on  me,"  laughed  Burroughs ;  adding  more 
seriously,  "  What  a  jewel  that  girl  is !  I  could  do 
almost  nothing  without  her." 

"  The  men  from  the  school  who  have  been  down 
here  have  all  fallen  in  love  with  her,"  said  Ray- 
mond. "  It  is  perfectly  safe,  for  she  is  easily 
thirty  years  old  and  has  a  lover  in  Italy,  it  is  said ; 
a  grande  signore,  who  has  sued  long  and  vainly 
for  her  hand.  But  she  loves  her  poor  people  bet- 
ter than  a  life  of  ease,  and  so  she  stays  here." 

"  Long  may  she  wave !  "  exclaimed  Burroughs, 
fervently. 

"  That  is  what  the  board  of  managers  say,  only 
in  less  picturesque  language.  And  speaking  of 
them  leads  me  to  remark  that  I  presume  you  have 
already  discovered  that  a  different  member  of  the 
board  is  appointed  as  visitor  each  month.  You 
will  find  that  each  one  of  these  estimable  ladies 
has  a  different  theory  which  she  expects  you  to  put 
into  practice.  You  will  soon  learn  that  each  sug- 
gestion upsets  those  of  the  previous  months.  You 
will  need  to  be  reasonably  independent.  They 
will  respect  you  more  for  it,  as  they  know  you  can 
be  trusted." 


THE  STOLEN  PATIENTS  25 

"  Thanks  for  the  suggestion.  Now  tell  me  about 
yourself.  Is  your  practice  going  well?  Are  the 
fees  coming  in  ?  Is  your  stock  paying  dividends  ?  " 

Raymond's  personal  affairs  were  always  in  good 
condition.  It  seemed  as  if  the  young  man  had 
been  born  under  a  particularly  lucky  star.  He  had 
large  means,  and  upon  graduation  had  entered  an 
excellent  practice  under  the  patronage  of  an  old 
physician  about  to  retire.  In  addition  to  his  other 
practice  he  had  the  charge  of  several  well-paying, 
although  uninteresting  chronic  cases,  and  did  sur- 
gical work  at  the  children's  hospital.  His  home 
was  with  his  adoring  mother  in  pleasant  uptown 
apartments. 

His  experiences  were  very  different  from  those 
of  his  friend,  for  he  was  a  good  deal  of  a  society 
man,  and  Burroughs  always  liked  to  hear  about 
the  fashionable  functions  in  which  Raymond  took 
a  prominent  part,  although  he  himself  knew  no- 
thing of  social  gayety  from  personal  experience. 

"  Our  whist  club  is  suspended  for  the  summer," 
Raymond  said,  among  other  things.  "  The  Farns- 
worth  girls  have  gone  to  Boston  to  cultivate  their 
minds  for  a  few  weeks  before  going  to  Bar  Harbor, 
Jameson  and  Lamond  are  off  on  an  automobile 
trip,  and  Margaret  Worthington  starts  for  Italy 
and  Switzerland  next  week.  It  will  be  a  little 


26     THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

dull  for  a  while.  But  we  shall  go  away  ourselves 
the  first  of  July." 

He  put  his  ear  down  to  his  guitar,  twanged  the 
G  string,  and  tightened  it  up.  He  could  not  see 
the  flush  that  spread  over  Burroughs's  face. 

"Margaret  grows  sweeter  and  daintier  every 
day,"  went  on  Raymond,  satisfied  with  the  tuning 
of  his  string.  "  I  tell  you  what,  Burroughs,  I  'm 
half  in  love  with  that  girl." 

Burroughs's  laugh  was  a  little  constrained. 

"  You  are  always  in  love  with  some  one,  Walter," 
he  said.  There  was  a  weary  note  in  his  voice 
which  Raymond  did  not  detect. 

"  That 's  so,  Phil.  It 's  a  chronic  condition.  I 
suppose  this  is  only  a  transient  fancy,  but  the  man 
who  wins  Miss  Worthington  will  get  a  jewel." 

As  he  spoke,  the  dispensary  bell  jangled  sud- 
denly, and  Burroughs  went  to  the  door.  A  little 
girl  with  a  snuff-colored  shawl  over  her  head  and 
her  eyes  big  with  excitement,  exclaimed,  — 

"  Is  you  the  doctor  ?  My  mother  says  come 
quick  !  Our  boarder 's  awful  sick." 

Burroughs  stepped  back  into  the  office. 

"  It 's  too  bad,  but  I  've  a  sudden  call.  Take 
your  time  about  going.  That  pamphlet  you  wanted 
is  on  my  trunk  in  the  '  back  alley.'  Just  help 
yourself  to  it  when  you  go,  and  put  the  lamp  out." 


THE  STOLEN  PATIENTS  27 

As  he  spoke,  Burroughs  put  on  his  hat,  caught 
up  his  satchel,  and  joined  the  little  girl  at  the 
door.  Kaymond  placed  his  guitar  leisurely  in  its 
case,  took  the  lamp,  and  made  his  way  through 
the  waiting-room  to  what  Burroughs  had  termed 
the  "  back  alley."  It  was,  in  fact,  a  narrow  room 
beyond  the  waiting-room,  its  floor  two  steps  below 
the  level  of  the  other  apartments.  A  sink  with 
running  water  was  here,  a  single  window,  and  a 
door  which  led  into  the  tiny  back  yard.  Who  had 
given  the  name  to  this  room  no  one  could  tell. 
The  title  had  been  handed  down  from  one  interne 
to  another  like  a  college  tradition.  It  was  here 
that  Burroughs  slept,  and  as  Raymond  looked 
around  the  comfortless  place,  he  exclaimed  to  him- 
self, — 

"  That  fellow  has  pluck !  I  don't  believe  I  could 
stand  this  for  two  weeks.  And  this  is  the  least  of 
his  troubles." 

He  found  the  pamphlet  he  was  seeking,  took  the 
lamp  back  to  the  office,  and  then  started  off  briskly 
for  the  regions  of  brownstone  and  American  re- 
spectability. 


CHAPTER  III 
A  WRONG  DIAGNOSIS 

IN  the  mean  time  Burroughs  and  the  little  girl 
had  turned  into  the  square.  It  was  not  more  than 
ten  o'clock,  and  as  the  evening  was  a  warm  one  the 
place  was  alive  with  groups  of  chattering  men  and 
women.  Nearly  all  the  shawls  flung  over  the  heads 
of  the  women  sheltered  brown-eyed,  wise-faced 
babies.  It  was  not  difficult  for  Burroughs  to 
imagine  where  Raphael  found  the  Holy  Child,  but 
the  Madonna  type  was  not  so  easy  to  discover,  for 
the  hard-worked  Italian  peasant  girls  look  like  old 
women  before  they  attain  their  majority,  and 
wrinkles  destroy  the  beauty  of  many  a  pair  of  vel- 
vety brown  eyes. 

It  was  too  early  in  the  season  for  the  sherbet 
peddler,  but  a  push-cart  of  peanuts  was  the  cen- 
tre of  a  brisk  trade  and  a  hand-organ  was  ani- 
mating the  air  with  its  sprightly  trills  and  arpeg- 
gios. All  about  it  laughing  children,  two  by  two, 
were  waltzing  and  pirouetting  in  fascinating  aban- 
don. Other  hand-organ  players,  tugging  at  the 


A  WRONG  DIAGNOSIS  29 

handles  of  their  instruments,  waved  good-natured 
greetings  to  their  confreres,  as  they  hurried  home- 
ward from  reaping  rich  harvests  in  the  uptown 
fields  of  financial  plenty.  Two  women  returning 
from  the  remote  suburbs  sat  in  state  upon  the  front 
of  their  hand-organ  and  guided  a  meek  pony  which 
drew  the  machine.  Before  the  parochial  house  of 
Santa  Maria  a  woman  with  magenta  headscarf, 
white  blouse,  and  grass-green  petticoat  dispensed 
fortunes  through  the  mediumship  of  two  paroquets 
and  a  white  mouse.  Burroughs  had  once  purchased 
one  of  these  fortunes,  but  when  La  Signorina  trans- 
lated it  and  he  found  himself  described  as  a  married 
man  with  a  doting  family  he  lost  faith  in  green 
birds  and  white  mice. 

The  shops  were  open,  their  dingy  windows  mak- 
ing the  usual  display;  here,  long-stemmed  pipes 
and  packages  of  tobacco ;  there,  macaroni  in  a  great 
variety  of  forms  and  huge,  ring-shaped  loaves  of 
bread ;  yonder,  vegetables  and  condiments  unfa- 
miliar to  American  eyes. 

Many  of  the  shop-owners  sat  at  ease  upon  step 
or  sidewalk,  enjoying  the  evening  with  the  serenity 
of  men  at  peace  with  themselves  and  their  neigh- 
bors. There  was  Guiseppe  Terminello,  the  grocer, 
with  smiling  face  and  ample  paunch,  dandling  upon 
one  knee  his  youngest  offspring,  while  upon  the 


30      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

other  was  perched  the  babe  of  his  eldest  son.  The 
bambini,  who  were  about  the  same  age  and  appar- 
ently greatly  interested  in  one  another,  looked  so 
much  alike  that  Burroughs  wondered  whether  the 
proud  Guiseppe  could  really  tell  which  was  uncle 
and  which  was  nephew. 

There,  too,  was  Pastorelli  with  the  brigand 
mustache  and  nonchalant  air,  smoking  his  long 
pipe  at  the  door  of  his  fruit  store.  Just  within, 
Burroughs  could  see  his  wife,  a  faded  beauty,  who 
was  making  red  and  green  paper  roses  with  which 
to  decorate  the  shop.  She  conducted  a  little  res- 
taurant back  of  the  fruit  stands  and  sometimes 
Burroughs  went  in  for  a  dish  of  macaroni  or  a  cup 
of  black  coffee.  Upon  such  occasions  the  wife  of 
Pastorelli  was  in  an  ecstasy;  she  would  stop  at 
frequent  intervals,  while  serving  him,  to  pat  him 
upon  the  shoulder  and  croon  a  delightful  mixture 
of  English  and  Italian  in  a  remarkably  sweet  and 
liquid  voice.  She  had  a  yellow  dog  of  which  she 
was  very  proud,  which  would  insanely  rush  out  of 
the  shop  every  time  a  wagon  passed,  and  chase  it 
as  far  as  the  front  of  the  church.  Then  he  would 
trot  back  with  lopping  tongue,  and  Burroughs 
would  squander  five  cents  for  peanuts  to  feed  him, 
while  his  delighted  mistress  stood  by  smiling  and 
exclaiming  in  her  soft  voice,  "  Yes-a,  yes-a,  nice-a 


A  WRONG  DIAGNOSIS  31 

dorg-a  ;  eat-a  peanut-a,  —  nice-a  Giorgio,  —  yes-a, 
yes-a." 

The  big  church  loomed  above  the  square  with 
huge  twin  towers,  cross-surmounted.  Burroughs 
had  already  come  to  like  these  towers.  They  dom- 
inated the  district,  standing  with  enduring  calm 
above  the  picturesque  sky  line  of  tenements. 
Whether  seen  at  sunrise,  rosy  on  their  eastern 
faces,  blue  on  the  west,  at  high  noon  in  their  glit- 
tering whiteness,  or  purpling  against  the  flame  of 
sunset  sky,  they  were  beautiful.  To-night,  as  he 
passed  close  beneath  them,  he  did  not  look  up,  but 
followed  his  guide  down  a  narrow  alley  running  at 
right  angles  to  the  square.  He  did  not  speak  to 
the  child,  as  he  had  nothing  in  particular  to  say, 
nor  did  she  venture  a  word,  for  she  was  too  much 
awed  by  her  proximity  to  greatness  to  attempt  con- 
versation. 

Halfway  down  the  alley  the  child  plunged  in  at 
a  dark  doorway  and  the  student  followed  her.  She 
took  him  by  the  coat  sleeve  and  piloted  him  to 
the  stairway.  He  ascended,  taking  careful  steps 
in  the  darkness  with  his  head  well  down.  Just  be- 
fore he  reached  the  first  landing,  something  wet  and 
cold  touched  him  suddenly  upon  the  face. 

"  Goodness  !  "What 's  that  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  try- 
ing not  to  jump. 


32      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  Oh,  don't  be  scairt,"  said  the  child,  reassur- 
ingly ;  "  it 's  only  Carlotti's  dog ;  he  allers  waits 
on  the  landin'  till  Carlotti  comes  home.  Get  out, 
yer  dirty  sheeny !  "  This  last  remark  was  ad- 
dressed to  the  dog. 

Burroughs  stopped. 

"  See  here,"  he  said,  "  I  've  a  candle  in  my 
pocket.  Let 's  have  a  light." 

He  struck  a  match,  applied  it  to  the  candle- 
wick,  inspected  the  gaunt  dog  that  had  disconcerted 
him,  and  then  plodded  on  by  the  light  of  his  small 
torch. 

"  How  many  flights  more?  "  he  questioned,  after 
three  were  passed. 

"  Only  two,"  said  the  girl,  apologetically.  "  My 
house  is  on  the  top  floor.  Are  you  tired  so  quick  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit,"  rejoined  Burroughs,  thanking  hea- 
ven for  his  candle  as  he  stepped  around  a  wash 
tub  and  a  clothes  wringer  which  some  one  had  con- 
siderately left  on  the  stairway. 

As  a  rule  the  progress  of  il  dottore  through  a 
tenement  house  in  the  Italian  quarter  is  accom- 
panied by  the  phenomenon  of  curious  faces  thrust 
from  every  doorway  along  his  route.  Men  and 
women  stand  on  tiptoe  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
great  man ;  open-mouthed  children  block  his  way 
and  stare  without  embarrassment.  Burroughs 


A  WRONG  DIAGNOSIS  33 

noticed  that  to-night  the  doors  were  all  closed,  the 
hallways  deserted.  This  was  due  in  part  to  the 
warmth  of  the  evening,  which  invited  sociability  in 
the  square,  and  in  part  to  a  reason  which  the  young 
doctor  learned  later. 

The  kitchen  on  the  sixth  floor,  into  which  Bur- 
roughs was  at  length  ushered,  was  quite  deserted. 
A  smoky  lamp  gave  a  vague  light  revealing  the 
typical  condition  of  a  slum  kitchen.  There  was  a 
clutter  of  dishes  on  the  table  ;  there  were  chairs 
without  backs,  and  the  shelf  was  loaded  with  pipes, 
holy  water  vases  and  paper  roses.  A  pitcher  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor  and  a  gray  cat  drank 
therefrom,  her  head  thrust  well  into  its  interior.  A 
string,  stretched  diagonally  across  the  room,  sagged 
under  its  burden  of  dilapidated  garments  and  old 
rags.  Burroughs  put  down  his  head  to  pass  be- 
neath the  clothes-line  and  followed  his  guide  to  the 
bedroom.  As  he  approached,  men  and  women, 
their  eyes  big  with  excitement,  flocked  from  the 
smaller  room.  Burroughs  counted  them  hastily. 
There  were  five  men,  seven  women,  and  a  baby  in 
arms.  Then  he  understood  why  the  halls  below 
were  deserted.  He  heard  a  man's  voice  moaning, 
"  Oh,  my  God !  Let  me  die !  Oh,  my  God !  Oh, 
my  God!" 

The  bedroom  was  just  long  enough  for  the  iron 


34     THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

bedstead,  beside  which  stood  a  little  bureau,  its 
warped  drawers  bulging  with  more  old  clothes. 
The  remaining  width  of  the  room  was  taken  up  by 
a  couch.  This,  too,  was  the  length  of  the  room. 
How  twelve  grown  people  had  crowded  in  was  a 
mystery.  They  had  probably  sat  upon  the  large 
bed. 

On  the  edge  of  the  couch  huddled  a  man.  He 
wore  no  coat  nor  collar,  and  the  muscles  of  his 
scrawny  throat  worked  horribly  as  his  shoulders 
heaved  up  and  down  in  the  effort  to  get  breath. 
He  repeated  in  gasps  the  words  Burroughs  had 
heard  upon  entering:  "Oh,  my  God!  Let  me  die!" 

He  spoke  English  perfectly  and  was  evidently 
not  an  Italian.  It  flashed  through  Burroughs' s 
mind  that  he  might  be  a  stranger  in  the  city  who 
had  fallen  into  bad  hands.  He  looked  up  wistfully 
into  the  interne's  face. 

"  You  are  Doctor  Burroughs  ?  "  he  gasped. 

"Yes." 

"  Thanks  for  coming.  My  name  is  Maxon.  I 
am  subject  to  these  attacks.  There  's  only  one 
help.  Hypodermic  of  morphine.  Quick,  for  God's 
sake,  before  I  die  !  " 

This  was  said  spasmodically  and  with  great 
effort.  Burroughs  was  in  a  quandary.  It  was  the 
first  case  of  the  kind  he  had  ever  seen.  The  Ital- 


A  WRONG  DIAGNOSIS  36 

ians,  their  eyes  bulging,  had  crowded  into  the  room 
again. 

"  Get  out  of  here !  "  ordered  Burroughs  sharply, 
but  as  none  of  them  understood  English,  nobody 
moved. 

"  Via !  "  exclaimed  the  little  girl,  shaking  her 
fist,  and  they  all  dropped  back  into  the  kitchen. 

Burroughs  felt  of  the  man's  pulse.  It  was  a 
blur  of  motion.  He  could  scarcely  distinguish 
the  throbs.  The  sufferer's  face  was  furrowed  with 
pain  and  overspread  by  a  horrid  grayness.  Per- 
spiration trickled  from  his  forehead  and  dropped 
upon  the  floor. 

"  Quick !  "  he  gasped.  "  Have  you  no  pity  ? 
Quick !  " 

Burroughs  took  a  pastille  from  his  satchel  and 
demanded  a  plate.  The  girl  spoke  to  her  mother, 
who  took  a  dirty  one  from  the  table,  wiped  it  on 
her  apron  and  passed  it  into  the  room.  Burroughs 
lighted  the  pastille  and  held  the  plate  close  to  the 
man's  face,  watching  as  the  fumes  wreathed  up- 
ward. Again  the  terror-stricken  eyes  appeared  in 
the  doorway,  and  there  was  a  murmur  of  surprise 
from  the  open  mouths. 

"  Can't  you  keep  those  fools  away  ?  "  demanded 
the  student,  angrily. 

The  child  rattled  off  a  string  of  Sicilian  and 


36      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

shook  her  fist  once  more.  The  heads  disappeared. 
The  gray-faced  man  gasped  on.  There  was  not 
the  slightest  suggestion  of  relief. 

"  Why  can't  you  do  as  I  say  ?  "  he  moaned. 

"  Because,"  returned  the  interne,  "  if  you  send 
for  me  you  must  take  my  treatment.  If  you're  not 
satisfied,  you  can  send  for  another  man." 

He  set  down  the  plate  with  emphasis  as  he  spoke 
and  picked  up  his  hat.  So  far  as  he  could  judge 
the  man  was  suffering  from  an  acute  attack  of 
asthma,  and  morphine  stood  out  at  the  very  end  of 
a  long  line  of  alleviatives.  It  was  a  last  resort  and 
Burroughs  abhorred  it. 

"  Don't  go,"  gasped  the  man.  "  I  was  rude. 
I  sent  for  you  because  .  .  .  because  .  .  .  Don't 
leave  me.  I  don't  want  another  doctor.  I  will  do 
what  you  say,  but  I  know  ;  I  know.  Two  grains 
will  do  at  first.  Don't  let  me  die." 

"  Two  grains  !  Good  God,  man  !  Do  you  want 
me  to  kill  you?  " 

The  man  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  was 
caught  by  a  sudden  spasm  of  pain  and  clutched  at 
his  heart. 

"  These  pains  in  my  heart  will  kill  me,"  he 
moaned. 

The  Italians  in  the  next  room  were  talking  ex- 
citedly and  the  girl  was  called  out. 


A  WRONG  DIAGNOSIS  37 

"  My  father  says  you  make  the  man  well  quick 
er  he  '11  fire  yer  both  out,"  she  announced  upon  her 
return. 

"  You  tell  your  father  he  is  n't  the  size,"  replied 
Burroughs,  over  his  shoulder. 

He  broke  a  bead  of  amyl  on  a  bit  of  cotton  and 
held  it  to  the  man's  nose.  The  fumes  brought  a 
flush  to  his  own  face,  but  they  had  no  effect  upon 
his  patient.  Instead,  the  rapid  breathing  grad- 
ually increased,  the  sunken  eyes  seemed  starting 
from  their  sockets  and  the  ashy  face  turned  a  dull 
purple.  Burroughs  was  frightened,  but  he  kept  a 
bold  front.  If  worst  came  to  worst  he  would  send 
for  Doctor  Lamberghini,  on  the  Avenue.  He  de- 
cided that  it  would  do  no  harm  to  try  morphine,  as 
the  case  looked  extreme. 

"  I  'm  awful  sorry,  but  my  father  says  he  '11  fire 
yer  pretty  quick,"  whispered  the  girl  at  his  elbow. 

"  Bring  me  a  glass  of  water  and  a  spoon,"  Bur- 
roughs said. 

He  dissolved  a  quarter-grain  tablet  of  morphine 
and  prepared  his  needle.  The  man  looked  at  him 
gratefully  and  rolled  up  his  shirt  sleeve.  The  arm 
was  marked  with  numberless  tiny  spots. 

"  What 's  this  ?  "  asked  Burroughs,  pointing. 

"  Bites,"  gasped  the  sufferer ;  "  this  place  is 
alive  with  vermin." 


38      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  Hold  the  lamp  close,"  said  Burroughs  to  his 
little  attendant,  "  I  'm  going  to  stick  this  needle  in 
his  arm.  Don't  look  at  me  unless  you  're  sure  it 
won't  scare  you." 

"  I  ain't  afraid." 

"All  right." 

As  Burroughs  plunged  the  needle  he  beheld  the 
bulging  eyes  at  the  doorway  and  uttered  an  excla- 
mation of  wrath. 

"  It  don't  do  no  good  ter  send  'em  off,"  said  the 
girl,  setting  down  the  lamp.  "  They  're  crazy  ter 
see  the  queer  man,  V  you  're  the  doctor,  yer 
know." 

"  How  long  has  this  man  boarded  with  you  ?  " 
asked  Burroughs,  wiping  his  needle. 

"  'Bout  a  week.  Paid  down  when  he  come, 
too." 

"  Has  he  acted  like  this  before  ?  " 

"  Nope." 

"  Where  does  he  usually  sleep  ?  " 

"  In  this  here  bed." 

"  And  the  rest  of  you  ?  " 

"  In  that  there  bed  :  my  father,  V  my  mother, 
'n'  me  'n'  my  baby.  I  sleeps  'cross  the  foot." 

"  Oh,  I  see." 

"  Our  other  boarders  sleeps  on  the  floor  in  the 
kitchen  when  they's  here,  but  the  padrone  got 


A  WRONG  DIAGNOSIS  39 

'em  a  job  on  the  ackerduck,  so  they's  out  there 
now." 

"  Yes,  I  understand." 

Burroughs  watched  his  patient  closely,  waiting 
for  symptoms  of  relief.  Thus  he  waited  all  night, 
repeating  the  doses  of  morphine  at  frequent  inter- 
vals. The  girl's  father  evidently  thought  better  of 
his  plan  to  throw  physician  and  patient  into  the 
street,  for  shortly  after  midnight  he  entered  the 
room,  inspected  the  sufferer  with  nods  and  grunts, 
and  throwing  himself  across  the  bed,  fell  into  audi- 
ble slumber.  A  little  later  the  mother  mixed  some 
whiskey,  milk,  and  tea,  poured  them  into  a  bottle, 
waked  up  the  baby,  and  gave  it  some  supper. 
"What  was  left  she  put  in  a  cup  and  offered  to 
Burroughs  with  smiling  hospitality.  Burroughs 
was  neither  hungry  nor  thirsty. 

After  four  grains  of  morphine  had  been  admin- 
istered, the  horrible  gasping  ceased,  the  patient's 
eyes  drooped,  and  his  head  fell  back  on  the  pillow. 
Burroughs  looked  about  him  and  found  he  was 
the  only  person  awake,  as  the  watchful  Italians, 
who  would  not  desert  the  scene  of  interest,  lay 
on  the  kitchen  floor  asleep.  Why  he  had  not  killed 
the  man,  Burroughs  could  not  understand.  He 
waited  long  enough  to  assure  himself  that  all  was 
going  well,  and  then  he  awakened  his  little  assist- 


40      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

ant,  who  was  asleep  in  a  crumpled  heap  at  his 
feet. 

"  I  '11  come  again  in  the  afternoon,"  he  said 
kindly,  when  she  had  roused  enough  to  understand 
him.  "  You  'd  better  get  into  bed  and  have  a  long 
sleep.  Thank  you  for  your  help." 

She  smiled  sleepily  and  dropped  back  on  the 
floor.  Burroughs  looked  at  her  compassionately. 
Then  he  picked  her  up  very  gently  and  laid  her  on 
the  bed  beside  her  father,  took  off  her  dilapidated 
shoes,  and  spread  a  quilt  over  her. 

"  Poor  little  thing !  "  he  thought,  "  what  a  life 
she  leads !  " 

He  tiptoed  out  between  the  recumbent  Sicilians, 
accidentally  hitting  the  clothes-line  and  nearly 
bringing  it  down  on  his  head.  Then  he  made  his 
way  back  to  St.  Luke's  through  the  chilly,  echoing 
streets. 

That  morning  at  school  he  fell  asleep  during  a 
lecture,  and  went  up  afterwards  to  apologize  to  his 
professor  and  to  consult  about  the  strange  case  he 
had  attended.  When  he  had  given  the  symptoms 
and  submitted  his  diagnosis,  the  physician  began 
to  laugh. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  're  far  out  of  the  way  on 
that  diagnosis.  Quick  pulse ;  rapid  breathing ; 
neuralgic  pains  about  the  heart.  It  was  n't  asthma. 


A  WRONG  DIAGNOSIS  41 

That  man  is  a  morphine  fiend.  His  money  was 
probably  exhausted  and  this  acute  attack  followed 
his  inability  to  get  the  drug.  You  must  grasp 
situations  and  learn  to  recognize  their  bearing  on 
the  case  in  hand.  Did  n't  you  think  it  was  strange 
for  an  American  to  be  lodging  in  such  a  place  ?  " 

"  Humph  !  "  exclaimed  Burroughs,  in  great  dis- 
gust, "  I  did  think  it  was  a  queer  combination,  but 
I  never  thought  of  the  morphine  habit.  The  gasp- 
ing and  particularly  those  pains  around  the  heart 
threw  me  off  the  track." 

"  Doctor,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's  uncom- 
plimentary introspection,  "  how  long  does  it  take 
a  man  to  learn  what  a  fool  he  is  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you  in  confidence,"  was  the 
reply.  "  In  our  profession  we  find  it  out  at  least 
once  in  twenty-four  hours  every  week  of  our  lives." 


CHAPTER  IV 
A  READING  FROM  BYRON 

THE  grandfather  of  Luigi  Monti  hobbled  up 
Spring  Hill  Street  in  the  sunshine.  He  was  a  very 
old  man  who  had  fought  in  two  wars  for  Italy's 
freedom.  Now  in  his  extreme  age  he  dwelt  in 
America  with  his  grandchildren  and  lived  daily 
in  the  memory  of  the  stirring  past.  With  high, 
quavering  voice  he  was  singing  in  his  content; 
singing  a  song  of  the  Garibaldi  days  and  the  red 
shirt  of  the  patriots. 

"  Quanclo  a  Millazo 
Passai  sargente, 

Camicia  rossa,  camicia  ardente  — 
La  man  mi  strinse 
Con  forte  scossa ; 
Camicia  cara,  camicia  rossa !  " 

A  little  old  woman  with  a  white  handkerchief 
tied  over  her  head  peeped  out  of  her  window  a  few 
feet  above  the  sidewalk  and  looked  quizzically  at 
the  aged  man  with  her  shrewd  and  faded  blue  eyes. 

"  Hi,  there  !  "  she  cried  in  a  piping  voice.     "  Hi, 


A  READING  FROM  BYRON  43 

there,  yer  little  old  man !  D'  yer  want  ter  fight, 
yer  bold,  brave  sojer  ?  Ha !  ha !  ha !  "  and  she 
shook  her  fist  at  him. 

Old  Monti  stopped  and  made  her  an  elaborate 
bow. 

"  Com'  e  vussia  ?  "  he  asked  politely  in  Neapoli- 
tan dialect. 

"  I  s'pose  yer  sayin'  '  Howdy  do.'  I  'm  feelin' 
fine.  How  be  you  ?  " 

"  Bunariddu  stamatina,"  quavered  the  little  old 
man. 

It  was  their  daily  form  of  greeting.  Each  un- 
derstood the  other  imperfectly,  but  something  drew 
them  together  and  made  them  excellent  friends,  in 
spite  of  limitations.  Perhaps  it  was  the  conscious- 
ness that  they  were  the  oldest  people  on  Spring 
Hill  Street.  Burroughs  came  out  of  the  dispensary 
next  door. 

"  Now,  Miss  Cutter,"  he  said  with  mock  severity, 
"  I  've  caught  you  quarreling  with  Granddaddy 
Monti  again.  Let  up  on  the  old  man,  can't  you  ? 
You  're  altogether  too  fond  of  a  scrap." 

"  Wai,"  retorted  the  old  woman,  tossing  her 
head  and  taking  the  defensive  at  once,  "  is 't  any 
wonder  I  scraps  ?  Look  heow  them  Eye-talians  tor- 
ments me  all  the  time.  'T  ain't  no  wonder  I  fights ; 
hev  ter,  fer  my  rights." 


44      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  Yes,"  laughed  Burroughs,  "  but  don't  you  re- 
member what  the  Good  Book  says,  '  If  thine  enemy 
smite  thee,  turn  to  him  the  other  cheek  also.'  " 

Miss  Cutter  paused  to  consider  for  a  single  in- 
stant. Then  she  thrust  her  head  out  of  the  window 
and  screamed  to  the  retreating  student. 

"  Wai,  you  'd  better  look  'round  in  yer  Bible 
'tel  yer  find  where  it  says,  *  When  yer  live  in 
Rome,  yer  sh'd  dew  as  the  Romans  dew.'  Ha ! 
ha!" 

Burroughs  paused  to  hear  the  rest  of  the  fun. 

"  Now,  you  doctor-feller,"  went  on  Miss  Cutter, 
flattered  by  the  student's  attention,  "  you  jest  re- 
member I  've  lived  on  this  here  hill  nigh  on  fifty 
years  and  o'  late  times  I  've  noticed  folks  doubles 
up  their  fists  V  smites  back  when  they  're  hit. 
While  I  live  in  Rome  I  '11  dew  as  the  Romans  dew, 
I  thank  yer.  Good-mornin',  dar-tory,  good-morn- 
in'.  Ha !  ha !  ha  !  "  and  she  slammed  down  her 
window  in  triumph,  leaving  Burroughs  laughing 
and  old  Monti  greatly  bewildered. 

She  was  one  of  the  few  Americans  whose  attach- 
ment to  Spring  Hill  had  kept  them  in  the  district 
in  spite  of  foreign  invasion.  Though  nearly  ninety 
years  old  she  was  still  sprightly,  with  a  sharp  tongue, 
which  was  her  pride,  and  an  undying  hostility  to 
the  majority  of  her  neighbors.  She  owned  the 


A  READING  FROM  BYRON  45 

two-story  wooden  house  in  which  she  lived,  and  her 
daily  round  of  duties  consisted  in  carrying  out  the 
details  of  her  solitary  housekeeping  and  in  challeng- 
ing all  comers  to  wordy  battles,  from  which  she 
usually  emerged  triumphant. 

A  favorite  grievance  was  that  St.  Luke's  was  not 
a  charitable  dispensary,  but  was  carried  on  for  the 
financial  benefit  of  the  board  of  managers.  She 
had  great  faith  in  the  interne  and  interpreter,  how- 
ever, probably  due  to  the  fact  that  the  staff  joked 
with  her  instead  of  taking  her  innuendoes  seriously. 

When  Burroughs  had  gone  down  the  hill  in  one 
direction  and  Grandfather  Monti  had  started  for 
his  home  at  the  other  end  of  the  street  Miss  Cutter 
opened  her  window  once  more,  making  considerable 
show  of  shaking  a  rug,  but  in  reality  waiting  for 
the  interpreter.  She  was  soon  rewarded. 

"  Hi,  there,  Lar  Seenyer  Keener  !  "  she  cried,  as 
the  nurse  came  from  her  lodgings  ;  "  when  's  that 
there  Lady-board  goin'  ter  con-vene  agen  ?  " 

"  I  not  know,  Miss  Cutt' ;  not  till  goes  the  sum- 
mer, I  t'ink." 

"  And  then  they  '11  be  back  here  a-prancin'  in 
'n'  out  'n'  buildin'  air  castles.  'T  'ud  be  better, 
thinks  I,  if  they  'd  take  some  er  their  onholy  gains 
'n'  buy  the  dar-tory  a  new  pair  er  boots.  But  its 
air  castles,  air  castles,  air  castles  all  the  time." 


46      THE  HEAKT  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

La  Signorina  laughed,  but  made  no  reply.  She 
was  not  fond  of  tilting  with  Miss  Cutter,  for  the 
old  woman's  provincial  English  puzzled  her  and 
she  knew  the  limits  of  her  own  vocabulary.  At 
length  she  said  good-naturedly,  — 

"  I  t'ink  to  go  now,  Miss  Cutt'.  I  go  to  see  poor 
baby,"  —  adding  with  a  sly  twinkle,  "  you  will  go 
with  me?" 

"  Will  I  go  with  yer  ?  No,  I  thank  yer.  I  have 
other  fish  ter  fry,  Miss  Lar  Seenyer  Keener.  I  '11 
bid  yer  a  perlite  good-mornin'." 

Then  it  was  quiet  for  a  time  on  the  old  street. 
Brady  and  his  henchmen  lounged  in  the  grave- 
yard, Pastore's  fat  dog  crossed  the  street  and  lay 
down  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  wife  of  Ricci,  the 
mandolin  teacher,  thrust  the  ends  of  her  Notting- 
ham lace  curtains  out  of  her  parlor  windows  pre- 
paratory to  the  Friday  sweeping. 

A  faded  man  walked  slowly  up  from  the  square. 
He  started  to  enter  the  doorway  of  St.  Luke's,  but 
Miss  Cutter's  detaining  words  prevented  him. 

"  The  doctor  ain't  in.  'T  ain't  no  use  ter  ring 
the  bell.  Want  him  fer  anything  special  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Maxon,  tremulously,  "  I  simply  came 
up  to  thank  him  for  a  favor  he  did  me  last  night. 
I  was  very  sick  and  he  sat  up  with  me  nearly  all 
night." 


A  READING  FROM  BYRON  47 

"  'S  that  so  ?  "  said  Miss  Cutter,  much  interested. 
"  Wai,  I  declare.  An'  yer  able  ter  be  up  this 
mornin' !  Yer  looks  kinder  peaked,  though.  Won't 
yer  come  in  V  rest  ?  " 

"  No,  I  thank  you  ;  I  '11  come  up  again,  I  think. 
I  suppose  Doctor  Burroughs  will  be  in  for  his 
clinic  this  afternoon  ?  " 

"  Yes,  same  's  usual.  But  had  n't  yer  better 
come  in  'n'  rest  a  little  while?  Yer  look  real 
used  up." 

Maxon  yielded.  He  felt  very  weak,  for  he  had 
not  breakfasted  that  morning,  as  he  had  no  money, 
and  the  smell  of  Italian  cooking  was  intolerable  to 
him.  Miss  Cutter,  moved  more  by  curiosity  than 
by  hospitality,  opened  the  door  and  ushered  him 
into  her  little  parlor.  Then  she  trotted  briskly  to 
her  kitchen,  took  the  teapot  off  the  back  of  the 
stove,  and  set  it  over  the  fire.  As  soon  as  the  tea 
was  hot  she  brought  it  in,  with  cup  and  saucer, 
sugar  and  milk. 

"  Now  take  a  good  drink.  It  '11  make  yer  feel 
more  alive.  Hev  sugar  'n'  cream,  both  ?  Be  yer 
an  American  ?  I  thought  so.  It 's  good  ter  see 
an  American  in  this  God-forsaken  place.  This 
street  used  ter  be  most  se-lect.  But  now  it 's  Eye- 
talians,  Eye-talians,  Eye-talians  ! !  It 's  no  place 
fer  Christians  ter  live." 


48  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

Maxon  drained  the  cup  gratefully,  and  Miss 
Cutter  refilled  it,  hoping  every  moment  that  her 
seedy  guest  would  begin  to  talk. 

"  So  you  live  round  here?  "  she  asked,  as  he  set 
down  his  cup. 

"  Yes,"  said  Maxon,  hesitantly.  "  I  am  living 
here  for  the  present.  I  have  n't  been  here  very 
long.  I  came  here  to  be  near  Doctor  Burroughs. 
Sometime,  when  I  am  feeling  like  myself,  I  will  tell 
you  why  I  am  attached  to  Doctor  Burroughs  .  .  . 
but  I  am  not  equal  to  the  task  to-day.  This  is 
very  good  tea.  May  I  trouble  you  for  another 
cup?" 

Miss  Cutter  tilted  the  teapot. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  poetry  ?  "  he  asked,  earnestly, 
when  he  had  finished  the  draught. 

"  Wai,  I  can't  say  that  I  be.  I  ain't  much 
given  ter  sent'ment  'n'  such  things." 

"  Do  you  know  Byron  ?  "  asked  Maxon,  eagerly, 
pulling  a  dilapidated  book  from  his  pocket. 

"  No,"  replied  Miss  Cutter,  primly,  "  I  have  n't 
the  pleasure  of  his  acquaintance." 

"  Then  I  shall  have  the  privilege  of  introducing 
you  to  him,"  said  Maxon,  with  wan  gayety.  "  He 
was  the  greatest  poet  England  ever  produced. 
His  works  will  live  long  after  Tennyson  and 
Browning  are  forgotten." 


A  READING  FROM  BYRON  49 

"  Indeed ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Cutter,  looking 
sphinxlike. 

"  Listen !  "  went  on  Maxon,  running  his  finger 
up  and  down  the  pages  in  search  of  some  particu- 
lar passage.  "  This  is  from  Childe  Harold,  a  mas- 
terpiece," and  he  began  to  read  with  fervor. 

At  eleven  o'clock  he  was  reading  still.  At  half- 
past  twelve  Miss  Cutter  carried  out  the  empty 
teapot  to  replenish  it,  and  when  she  returned  she 
brought  a  plate  of  bread  and  crullers  and  shared 
her  noonday  meal  with  him.  Then  he  picked  up 
his  shabby  book  and  went  on  reading.  Miss 
Cutter  took  up  her  knitting  and  worked  industri- 
ously, nodding  sympathetically  to  all  the  annota- 
tions. When  Burroughs  came  home  Maxon  was 
too  absorbed  in  poetry  to  notice  when  he  passed 
the  window.  Miss  Cutter  saw  him,  however,  and 
made  an  excuse  to  slip  out  and  waylay  him  at  the 
entrance  of  St.  Luke's. 

"  Fer  the  love  o'  pity,  come  V  see  what  I  've 
got  in  my  settin'  room,"  she  whispered,  grasping 
the  interne's  arm  and  standing  on  tiptoe  in  the 
effort  to  reach  his  ear.  "  Here 's  an  American 
that  looks  more  dead  th'n  alive 's  ben  a-settin'  in 
my  rocker  sence  nine  forty-five  this  mornin'. 
Doin',  what  d'  yer  s'pose  ?  A-readin'  Cheeld  Har- 
old, if  yer  please,  —  poetry  stuff,  ter  me  I " 


50     THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  " 

"  Talkin'  about  a  poor  feller  that  come  ter  see 
you  this  mornin'.  He  looked  kinder  starved,  'n* 
so  I  called  him  in  fer  a  cup  er  tea.  Could  n't  have 
no  American  look  that  way  in  this  region ;  an'  he 's 
drunk  three  teapots  full  er  tea  an'  eaten  half  a  loaf 
er  bread  V  seven  crullers,  an'  read  his  old  Cheeld 
Harold  till  I  had  a  mind  ter  throw  him  out  o'  the 
window." 

By  this  time  she  was  tugging  at  Burroughs's  arm, 
and  he  followed  her  to  her  door.  When  he  entered 
he  saw  the  situation  at  a  glance.  At  sight  of  the 
student,  Maxon  cringed. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  Burroughs  asked, 
sternly. 

"  I  ...  I  ...  Oh,  I  fear  I  have  encroached 
upon  this  lady's  kindness.  Is  it  really  afternoon  ? 
I  became  so  absorbed  in  this  matchless  poetry  .  .  . 
Are  you  fond  of  Byron,  Doctor  ?  .  .  .  Let  me  read 
you  ...  or  no ;  I  see  I  have  worn  out  my  wel- 
come. Good-by,  my  dear  madam;  good-by,  and 
thanks  for  your  hospitality." 

He  shook  hands  with  a  show  of  gallantry. 

"  Oh,  it 's  all  right,  mister,"  said  Miss  Cutter. 
"  I  was  willin'  ter  give  yer  the  tea,  only  don't  read 
me  no  more  o'  that  Cheeld  Harold  stuff." 

Maxon  took  the  rebuke  with  drooping  head, 


A  READING  FROM  BYRON  51 

picked  up  his  hat,  and  bowing  to  the  interne,  who, 
in  most  disconcerting  silence,  stood  aside  to  let  him 
pass,  he  sneaked  out  of  the  house.  Burroughs  fol- 
lowed him  closely. 

"  Come  with  me  a  minute,"  he  directed.  "  I 
have  something  to  say  to  you." 

Maxon  meekly  obeyed.  Burroughs  unlocked 
the  dispensary  door  with  deliberation,  and  pointed 
to  the  office  without  speaking. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said,  when  both  were  within. 
He  placed  a  chair  for  himself  directly  in  front  of 
the  one  Maxon  had  taken  and  looked  sternly  at 
him. 

"  You  are  to  understand  that  I  will  not  have  you 
imposing  on  that  old  woman  next  door,"  he  said. 
"  I  do  not  doubt  that  you  found  her  strong  tea 
excellent  for  the  state  of  your  nerves,  but  that 
makes  no  difference.  Beside  that,  you  need  not 
think  that  you  are  imposing  on  me.  I  know 
exactly  what  ailed  you  last  night.  I  have  small 
respect  for  an  opium  fiend,  but  I  might  have  more 
for  you  if  you  had  admitted  frankly  that  you  craved 
morphine.  As  it  is,  I  want  you  to  understand  that 
you  need  never  send  for  me  again  nor  come  here 
for  aid.  There  are  places  for  men  like  you,  but 
this  is  not  one  of  them.  If  you  wish  to  have  me, 
I  can  get  you  committed  to  a  retreat,  but  I  have 


62      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

neither  the  time  nor  the  inclination  to  furnish  you 
with  free  morphine.  That  is  all." 

Burroughs  rose  as  he  finished,  and  Maxon,  who 
had  not  taken  his  eyes  from  the  young  man's  face, 
rose  also.  His  lip  was  trembling  so  that  he  could 
hardly  speak,  but  he  managed  to  gasp,  — 

"  Don't  send  me  off ;  don't !  You  are  my  only 
hope.  Listen  to  me.  I  have  traveled  thousands 
of  miles  to  tell  you  this.  .  .  .  There  is  a  reason 
why  I  sent  for  you  last  night  ...  a  reason  why  I 
stay  in  this  vile  place.  You  have  a  claim  on  me, 
and  I  cannot  pay  my  obligation.  Look  at  me  ! 
Can  you  not  remember  having  seen  me  before? 
.  .  .  long  ago  ?  Is  there  nothing  in  my  face  that 
is  familiar  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Burroughs,  quietly.  He  believed, 
now,  that  the  man  was  insane. 

"  It  was  twenty  years  ago  .  .  .  Oh,  my  God  ! 
How  much  time  I  have  wasted.  .  .  .  Let  me  see ;  I 
went  first  to  Paris  and  afterwards  to  Rome  .  .  . 
then  to  Algiers  and  Cairo.  I  was  sick  in  Con- 
stantinople, and  it  was  there  I  began  to  take  mor- 
phine. ...  It  will  be  cocaine  and  whiskey  soon." 

He  drew  himself  up  with  an  effort,  and  broke  off 
abruptly.  Then  he  bent  a  wild  look  on  Burroughs 
and  spoke  suddenly,  his  voice  rising  to  a  shriek. 

"Philip    Burroughs!      Won't    you    save    me? 


A  READING  FROM  BYRON  53 

Won't  you  pull  me  out  of  this  hell  ?  If  you  knew ! 
If  you  knew !  My  God  !  why  can't  I  make  you 
understand  ?  " 

"You  must  go  now,  Maxon,"  said  Burroughs, 
kindly.  He  pressed  the  man  gently  but  forcibly 
toward  the  door.  "  I  can  do  nothing  for  you 
excepting  in  the  way  I  have  already  told  you.  If 
you  are  out  of  money  and  are  willing  to  work, 
there  are  places  where  you  can  get  food  and  lodg- 
ing in  exchange  for  service.  You  need  good  food 
more  than  anything  else,  and  work  will  give  you 
an  appetite.  If  you  keep  on  with  morphine,  there 
is  no  hope  for  you." 

Maxon  had  slunk  into  the  craven  once  more. 

"  Good-by,  doctor,"  he  said,  tremulously,  — 
"  good-by.  You  have  been  very  kind.  I  will  not 
trouble  you  again,  nor  the  old  lady  next  door. 
Good-by,  doctor,  good-by." 

He  crept  out  of  the  dispensary  feebly  and  Bur- 
roughs began  making  preparations  for  his  patients. 

Presently  Brady  came  down  the  graveyard  steps, 
crossed  the  street,  and  tapped  at  the  office  window. 
Burroughs  threw  up  the  sash. 

"  Say,"  said  Brady,  with  an  air  of  mystery, 
"  what  d'  yer  make  out  o'  that  customer  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  need  to  prescribe  for  him,"  replied 
Burroughs,  with  professional  reticence. 


54     THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  Off  his  head,  I  say,"  went  on  Brady.  "  He 
was  here  day  before  yesterday,  hangin'  round  ter 
see  you.  Said  he  use  ter  be  in  love  with  your 
sister  and  that  she  married  somebody  else  and 
then  died  and  he  fell  in  love  with  you  at  her 
funeral.  Then  he  went  off  travelin'  fer  years  and 
has  just  come  back  —  ter  make  love  ter  you,  as  fur 
as  we  could  make  out.  Any  truth  in  the  story  ?  " 

Burroughs  pondered  for  a  moment. 

"  I  never  had  a  sister,"  he  said  at  length. 

Then  he  closed  the  window  and  went  on  with 
his  work. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOVE 

IT  was  a  beautiful  day  in  June.  The  first  tints 
of  spring  had  ripened  into  the  richer  beauty  of 
early  summer  and  the  sky  was  blue  with  that  pecu- 
liar quality  of  warmth  which  comes  in  the  year's 
first  halcyon  days.  There  were  fleecy  clouds  roll- 
ing lazily  across  the  blue;  clouds  that  took  odd 
shapes  of  mountains,  birds,  and  beasts,  as  the 
clouds  used  to  when  we  were  children.  Indeed,  it 
was  so  fair  a  day  that  childhood  and  joy  and  all 
good  things  seemed  very  near  and  doubly  real. 

Young  Salvatore  Barone  had  a  half  holiday  that 
day  and  he  had  brought  Celestia  Carmanti  out  to 
the  great  city  park  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air  and 
for  something  else.  He  wanted  to  tell  her  some- 
thing which  he  could  not  well  say  in  the  stuffy 
parlor  on  Spring  Hill  Street,  with  her  father  and 
mother  sitting  by,  even  though  those  worthy  souls 
understood  scarcely  a  word  of  English.  Barone 
and  Celestia  had  come  to  the  United  States  in 
childhood,  had  grown  up  in  the  public  schools, 


56  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

were  proud  to  be  Americans,  and  looked  with 
patronizing  pity  on  the  old  folks  who  knew  no 
English  and  must  depend  upon  their  children  for 
communication  with  the  great  Anglo-Saxon  world. 

"  And  you  really  love  me  ?  "  Barone  asked,  in 
an  ecstasy,  when  the  fateful  moment  was  trium- 
phantly passed. 

"  Yes,  I  really  love  you." 

"  And  have  you  loved  me  long,  cara  mia  ?  " 

"  Stop !  Do  not  talk  Italian  to  me.  I  am  an 
American." 

"  Forgive  me,  then,  but  tell  me,  have  you  loved 
me  long  ?  " 

"Do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  answer  that 
question  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"Why  not?  Because  you  would  at  once  re- 
member when  you  began  to  love  me  and  if  it  should 
happen  that  I  loved  you  before  you  cared  for  me, 
how  ridiculous  I  should  be  in  your  eyes." 

"  Never,  carissima,  never.  You  could  not  pos- 
sibly seem  absurd." 

"  There  you  go  with  that  silly  talk  !  I  am  not 
my  grandmother  ;  you  do  not  need  to  talk  Genoese 
to  me  to  make  me  understand." 

They  were  sitting  very  close  together,  on  the 
hillside  which  overlooks  the  free,  rolling  fields  of 


THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOVE      57 

the  park  plaisance.  The  shepherd  with  his  flock 
and  never-resting  dog  were  off  in  the  green  middle 
distance,  but  they  might  as  well  have  been  out  of 
the  picture  so  far  as  making  any  impression  upon 
the  lovers  was  concerned. 

"  Oh,  you  must  not  put  your  arm  around  me  so 
soon  !  "  exclaimed  Celestia  after  a  potent  silence. 

"Do  you  mind  it,  dearest?"  asked  Barone, 
without  removing  the  offending  member. 

"  Yes,  I  mind  it  very  much.  I  shall  be  quite 
ashamed  of  myself  when  I  get  home  and  think  it 
over.  So  soon !  And  we  have  been  engaged  — 
well,  about  fifteen  minutes,  I  should  think." 

Salvatore  placed  his  thumb  and  finger  on  her 
chin  and  turned  her  face  gently  toward  his  own. 

"  Look  in  my  eyes,  little  girl,"  he  said  softly, 
"  and  tell  me  if  you  really  mind  it.  Oh,  you  can- 
not speak :  you  cannot  even  look  me  in  the  eyes !  " 

Celestia  gave  a  little  sigh.  It  was  not  of  resig- 
nation, surely,  but  of  satisfaction,  and  again  they 
sat  silent,  cheek  to  cheek,  looking  vaguely  across 
the  sunny  fields,  seeing  without  realizing  it  the 
graceful  swing  of  the  boughs  of  trees,  hearing 
without  knowing  it  the  babble  of  a  little  brook 
near  by,  feeling  upon  their  faces,  though  uncon- 
sciously, the  sweep  of  the  summer  breeze. 

"  You  have  given  me  eight  kisses  in  such  a  short 


58      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

time,"  murmured  Celestia,  at  length ;  "  my  lips  are 
all  red  and  sore,  I  know." 

"  Red,  yes,  always  ;  and  if  sore,  here  is  the  be- 
ginning of  the  cure,"  and  he  kissed  her  again. 

There  was  a  speck  of  dust  on  Barone's  coat  and 
Celestia  flecked  it  off  with  the  careful  pride  of  new 
possession.  The  wind  blew  his  hair  from  his  fore- 
head and  she  stroked  it  into  place,  while  Barone 
submitted  to  her  care  with  a  look  of  fond  ecstasy 
which  would  have  been  ludicrous  if  it  had  not  been 
so  vital. 

"  What  little  hands  you  have,  dear,"  Barone 
said. 

Celestia  laughed  and  tossed  her  head. 

"  Tell  me  how  soft  they  are,"  she  said ;  "  that 's 
the  thing  to  say." 

"  *  The  thing  to  say,'  you  little  minx !  What  do 
you  mean  by  that? " 

Celestia  laughed  again. 

"  That 's  the  thing  to  say.  Scarabini  always 
says  that." 

"  Scarabini ! "  muttered  Barone,  under  his 
breath. 

"  Yes,  Scarabini ;  but  he  will  never  say  it  to  me 
again,  dearest,  nor  hold  my  hand.  These  are  Sal- 
vatore's  hands  now,  and  they  are  going  to  work  for 
him  some  day." 


THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOVE      59 

Barone  bowed  his  head  above  the  little  hands 
and  kissed  the  soft  open  palms  she  held  out  to 
him. 

"  We  will  talk  no  more  of  Scarabini,"  went  on 
Celestia,  softly.  "  I  shall  never  love  him.  I  fear 
him  too  much.  I  do  not  like  it  because  he  works 
for  that  Spanish  doctor  and  I  think  he  deceives 
the  poor  people.  I  could  not  love  a  man  who  is 
unkind  to  the  poor." 

She  was  like  an  April  day  ;  laughing  and  saucy 
at  one  moment,  gentle  and  tender  almost  to  tears 
at  the  next.  Did  the  Blessed  Virgin  ever  bring 
better  fortune  than  his  to  a  poor  Italian  lad, 
Barone  wondered. 

As  the  afternoon  waned,  they  drifted  away  from 
the  hillside,  walking  hand  in  hand  like  children, 
through  the  sunlit  fields  and  through  groves  of 
hemlock,  by  the  rocky  gorge  where  the  brook 
danced  in  feathery  cascades.  And  Barone,  versed 
in  wood  lore  from  his  boyhood's  "  country  week  " 
days,  pointed  out  squirrel  paths  in  the  underbrush, 
found  likely  spots  for  ground  pine,  which  Celestia 
plucked  to  take  home  to  her  mother,  and  pulled  the 
fragrant  flag  from  the  quiet  pools  below  the  gorge. 

So  they  fared  on  until  sunset  warned  them  back 
to  the  world  of  trolley  cars  and  tenements,  but 
they  felt  like  beings  from  another  sphere,  since 


60     THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

love  had  given  to  them  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth.  They  walked  together  through  the  narrow 
streets  with  the  spell  of  love  and  summer  strong 
upon  them.  The  father  of  Celestia  was  smoking 
his  pipe  in  front  of  the  house  and  watching  the 
antics  of  certain  dirty-faced  children  with  the  air  of 
patriarchal  tolerance  cultivated  by  long  acquaint- 
ance with  the  rising  generation  of  the  district.  As 
the  young  people  approached,  his  sharp  black  eyes 
embraced  the  situation  at  a  glance,  and  he  nodded 
curtly  to  Salvatore,  ordering  Celestia  to  go  into 
the  house.  The  girl  cast  a  frightened  glance  to- 
ward her  lover  and  obeyed  the  wcfrd  which  had 
been  law  to  her  through  the  eighteen  years  of  her 
simple  life.  When  she  had  gone  in,  the  old  father 
beckoned  to  Salvatore  by  a  gesture  of  the  head. 

"  Where  took  you  my  daughter  ? "  he  asked, 
sternly,  in  Genoese. 

"  To  the  park,"  said  Salvatore. 

"Ah!  to  the  park.  And  made  you  love  to 
her?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  youth,  meeting  the  old  man's 
gaze  with  a  steady  eye  ;  "  yes,  I  made  love  to  Ce- 
lestia. She  does  me  the  great  honor  to  love  me. 
I  ask  permission  of  the  good  father  to  marry  Celes- 
tia some  time,  when  I  have  earned  enough  to  make 
her  happy." 


THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOVE      61 

The  father  uttered  something  between  a  growl 
and  an  imprecation. 

"  You  will  pay  no  suit  to  my  daughter.  I  make 
great  plans  for  Celestia.  I  spend  much  money  to 
have  her  fine  voice  made  beautiful.  She  shall  be 
a  great  singer.  Will  I  let  a  poor  fellow  like  you 
make  her  forget  the  great  plans  ?  No.  Will  I 
marry  her  to  a  penniless  nobody  like  Salvatore 
Barone?  No.  When  the  beautiful  Celestia  is 
married,  it  will  be  to  a  rich  and  great  gentleman 
who  can  give  her  fine  clothes,  so  that  the  people 
will  like  to  hear  her  sing.  You  will  come  here  no 
more.  You  will  say  no  more  the  fine  words  ;  you 
will  give  no  more  the  kiss.  Go  !  The  old  Pietro 
is  a  man  who  keeps  his  word.  If  any  more  you 
try  to  make  love  to  my  daughter,  it  is  the  good 
Father  Renaldo  who  will  deal  with  the  miserable 
Barone.  Go !  " 

"  But  so  much  I  love  your  daughter,"  pleaded 
Salvatore.  "  And  so  hard  I  will  work  for  her.  I 
go  now  to  the  night  high  school.  Then  I  will  go 
to  the  university  and  learn  to  be  a  lawyer.  Then 
I  will  be  a  fine  gentleman  and  will  earn  much 
money  for  the  beautiful  Celestia." 

"  Pah !  "  sneered  the  father,  taking  his  pipe 
from  between  his  thin  lips ;  "  you  are  but  a  boy. 
I  have  spoken." 


62      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOK 

Salvatore  was  Italian,  and  was  therefore  passion- 
ately earnest  in  his  love,  but  he  was  American 
enough  to  realize  the  unwisdom  of  arousing  an 
imperishable  antagonism  in  the  mind  of  the  old 
Genoese.  So  it  was  policy  rather  than  cowardice 
which  led  him  to  say  with  an  almost  servile 
politeness,  — 

"  Well,  signore,  since  you  are  determined,  I  will 
urge  you  no  further.  Believe  me,  I  will  no  more 
disturb  the  lovely  Celestia.  I  will  crush  my  love. 
You  are  a  kind  father,  and  know  best  what  is  well 
for  the  daughter.  It  is  not  for  the  humble  Barone 
to  press  his  suit.  I  bid  you  farewell.  Good- 
night." 

He  doffed  his  hat  politely,  cast  one  glance  at  the 
closed  shutters  of  Celestia's  room,  and  went  down 
the  street.  His  step  seemed  to  have  lost  its  elas- 
ticity ;  the  street  was  very  long  and  dark.  He  was 
conscious  of  a  strange  contraction  in  his  throat,  and 
did  not  know  that  it  was  a  sob.  He  crossed  the 
square  in  front  of  the  church  slowly,  wondering 
how  he  should  face  the  long,  stupid  days  at  the 
watchmaker's,  and  what  he  should  do  with  the 
Sunday  afternoons  he  had  planned  to  pass  with 
Celestia  —  those  cosy  hours  in  the  little  parlor  on 
Spring  Hill,  and  those  jaunts  to  the  great  muse- 
ums and  libraries  uptown.  Barone  was  a  progres- 


THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOVE     63 

sive  youth,  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  American 
spirit  of  culture,  and  eager  to  avail  himself  of 
every  opportunity  which  should  lift  him  out  of  the 
class  from  which  he  sprung.  As  he  entered  his 
boarding-house  the  noisy  bell  was  ringing  for  six 
o'clock  dinner.  He  followed  the  troup  of  good- 
natured  Italian  men  into  the  ill  ventilated  dining- 
room,  but  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  spaghetti 
was  repulsive  to  him.  There  were  freshly  pre- 
pared peppers,  too,  spicily  fragrant,  but  he  could 
not  eat  them.  He  drank  a  glass  or  two  of  home- 
made wine  and  left  the  table,  going  at  once  to  his 
room.  He  rolled  a  cigarette,  and  smoked  with  his 
chair  tilted  against  the  wall.  There  was  an  arc- 
lamp  near  by  which  made  his  room  light.  How 
dull  and  inconsequent  everything  seemed  !  There 
in  the  corner  was  the  piece  of  coral  he  had  bought 
from  a  sailor-man  down  at  the  wharves ;  yonder 
on  the  wall  was  a  half-tone  print  of  the  murdered 
King  Umberto,  and  beneath  it  the  badge  of  mourn- 
ing he  had  worn  on  the  day  when  he  marched  with 
the  Sons  of  Italy  in  the  memorial  parade.  It  was 
the  glory  of  a  bygone  day.  He  cared  no  more  for 
kings  or  badges  or  parades.  And  yet,  Celestia 
had  told  him  that  she  loved  him.  Could  the  cross 
father  prevent  her  from  loving  him?  Yes.  If 
she  heard  no  more  from  Barone,  would  not  the  old 


64      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

man  persuade  her  that  her  lover  had  changed  his 
mind?  Yes,  surely.  He  must  get  word  to  her. 
But  how  ?  Who  would  be  a  trusty  messenger,  dis- 
interested and  silent  ?  Ah  !  he  had  it  —  La  Sig- 
norina  at  the  dispensary  on  Spring  Hill.  She  had 
helped  to  bring  him  through  typhoid  fever  the 
winter  before,  doing  much  to  cheer  the  long,  color- 
less days  of  his  convalescence  in  the  lonely  board- 
ing-house. Barone  put  on  an  old  slouch  hat, 
turned  up  his  coat  collar,  and  took  a  circuitous 
route  to  St.  Luke's,  approaching  from  the  farther 
end  of  the  street  in  order  to  escape  being  seen  by 
old  Pietro  Carmanti.  And  all  the  way  his  spirits 
were  rising,  for  youth  and  love  are  invincible,  and 
he  embodied  both. 

Nothing  delighted  La  Signorina  more  than  a 
romance,  and  she  was  greatly  pleased  to  be  the 
confidante  of  the  unfortunate  Barone.  She  would 
not  agree  to  be  the  bearer  of  messages  between  the 
lovers,  but  she  smiled  and  looked  very  wise,  and 
Barone  felt  sure  he  had  won  her  for  an  ally.  It 
was  through  her  aid  that  he  subsequently  secured 
a  good  position  in  a  city  fifty  miles  distant,  where 
he  secured  larger  wages  than  in  his  former  work. 
To  be  sure,  he  could  not  stand  every  night  in  the 
shadow  of  the  graveyard  wall  and  gaze  at  the 
unsympathetic  brick  front  of  his  loved  one's  house, 


THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOVE      65 

but  he  felt  that  in  another  way  he  was  drawing 
nearer  to  her  than  he  had  ever  been  before,  since 
his  now  steadily  increasing  bank  account  showed 
him  that,  according  to  Pietro's  standards,  he  was 
rapidly  becoming  a  gentleman. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  SPANISH  DOCTOR 

THE  summer  was  one  of  extreme  heat.  The 
managers  of  St.  Luke's  allowed  Burroughs  two 
weeks'  vacation,  which  he  spent  at  Mrs.  Raymond's 
summer  home  at  the  seaside.  The  first  of  August 
found  him  back  at  Spring  Hill  busy  with  the  many 
cases  which  hot  weather  develops.  He  frequently 
saw  the  father  of  the  little  child  whom  he  had 
wished  to  send  to  the  hospital  in  the  spring,  but 
the  man  seemed  anxious  to  avoid  him,  and  he 
learned  through  another  Italian  that  the  little  one 
had  been  taken  to  the  Spanish  doctor  and  that  she 
was  getting  well. 

Biaggio  Carbone  was  working  early  and  late, 
for  the  Spanish  doctor's  medicine  was  very  expen- 
sive. Upon  the  initial  visit  the  doctor  had  pro- 
mised a  complete  cure,  but  he  demanded  fifty 
dollars  as  his  fee  in  advance.  Biaggio  and  his 
wife  raised  hands  of  dismay.  Impossible  !  They 
had  not  so  much  money  in  the  world,  nor  could 
they  borrow  the  sum.  By  gradually  reducing  the 


THE  SPANISH  DOCTOR  67 

price,  the  doctor  had  at  last  agreed  to  take  the 
case  upon  the  immediate  payment  of  five  dollars, 
but  since  they  could  not  give  the  full  amount  in 
advance,  the  ultimate  price  of  the  cure  would  be 
seventy-five  dollars,  to  be  paid  before  New  Year's 
day. 

He  then  gave  Carbone  a  pint  bottle  of  dark 
fluid,  for  which  he  demanded  an  extra  dollar.  The 
medicine  lasted  exactly  one  week,  and  a  dollar  was 
paid  at  each  renewal  of  the  prescription. 

That  was  why  Carbone  was  up  before  dawn 
those  warm  July  mornings.  In  the  dirty  alley  in 
front  of  the  tenement  where  he  lived,  amidst  heaps 
of  ashes  and  decaying  vegetables,  he  mixed  and 
froze  watery  ice-cream,  which  he  afterwards  ped- 
dled through  the  streets  of  the  Italian  quarter. 
He  had  borrowed  the  freezer  from  the  rich  and 
kind  Connetti,  who  let  him  have  it  without  charge, 
for  old  friendship's  sake.  From  Brigandi,  the 
confectioner,  he  rented  a  small  push-cart,  painted 
bright  blue,  and  decorated  with  strange  bird 
forms,  done  in  red.  On  this  cart  he  daily  loaded 
his  freezer,  carefully  wrapped  in  a  bit  of  red  table- 
cloth. As  he  progressed  through  the  streets,  his 
approach  was  heralded  by  the  stroke  of  a  huge 
bell  at  the  sound  of  which  eager  youngsters  would 
rush  from  the  houses  whither  they  had  gone  to 


68      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

importune  for  pennies,  while  grimy  hands  would 
hold  out  coppers,  and  dirty  faces  were  bland  with 
smiles.  Biaggio  would  uncover  the  freezer,  lift 
the  lid  of  a  little  partition  at  the  back  of  the  cart, 
and  take  out  a  square  of  newspaper.  With  his 
long  iron  spoon  he  would  place  a  dab  of  ice  cream 
upon  the  improvised  plate  and  hand  it  to  the 
waiting  child,  serving  each  in  turn.  This  little 
ceremony  being  concluded,  the  freezer  would  be 
covered,  and  the  monotonous  note  of  the  bell  would 
mark  the  progress  toward  another  region  of  prob- 
able buyers.  What  he  did  was  done  very  earnestly, 
for  every  penny  which  jingled  into  his  box  meant 
new  health  for  his  "  Pearl  of  Italy,"  his  little 
Eosa. 

The  family  lived  on  very  humble  fare  during 
those  anxious  days.  Even  the  supply  of  spaghetti 
was  limited  and  garlic  became  a  luxury.  The 
home-made  wine  was  fortunately  not  yet  exhausted 
and  they  managed  to  keep  alive.  For  a  time  these 
efforts  and  self  -  denials  were  rewarded.  Rosa 
seemed  better ;  she  sat  up  in  bed  by  the  hour, 
quite  free  from  pain,  and  amused  herself  with  a  bit 
of  wire  and  three  buttons,  which  were  her  only 
toys.  But  as  the  summer  waxed  into  the  wasting 
heat  of  dog-days,  cries  of  baby  anguish  increased 
the  horror  of  the  stifling  nights,  and  the  weary 


THE  SPANISH  DOCTOR  69 

mornings  would  find  Carbone  and  his  wife,  pale 
and  anxious,  hurrying  to  the  Spanish  doctor  with 
their  little  moaning  burden. 

Then  from  necessity  the  food  supply  fell  off  still 
more,  and  the  older  children  whined  and  snarled 
about  the  alley  like  hungry  wild  animals  and  ate 
refuse  from  the  barrels  behind  the  corner  market. 

One  morning  Car  bone's  wife  went  to  the  City 
Hall  and  secured  a  temporary  license  to  finish 
trousers,  and  day  after  day  early  risers  would  see 
her  returning  from  the  Jewish  quarter  with  a  huge 
armful  of  trousers  bulging  beneath  her  snuff-col- 
ored shawl.  It  was  slow  work ;  the  facings  must 
be  so  carefully  adjusted,  there  were  so  many  but- 
tons to  sew  on  and  each  one  with  such  precision 
that  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  would  never  learn 
to  work  swiftly.  But  love  was  back  of  her  efforts, 
and  by  industrious  labor  she  was  at  length  able  to 
finish  eight  pairs  in  a  day.  At  eight  cents  a  pair 
she  could  save  a  good  sum  toward  the  payment  of 
the  doctor's  bill  due  at  New  Year's. 

"  Ah,  my  dearest !  "  she  would  say  a  dozen  times 
a  day,  laying  down  her  needle  to  kiss  and  clasp 
the  little  body  she  was  toiling  so  hard  to  save, 
"  thou  art  mother's  little  dove,  her  little  pearl. 
Sweet!  I  pray  the  blessed  mother  of  God  will 
spare  your  life  to  me." 


70      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

Much  more  she  would  say,  but  why  translate  the 
words  ?  Mother-talk  is  much  alike  in  all  languages 
and  in  all  dialects. 

Just  as  the  woman  had  become  really  skillful 
with  her  work,  the  inspector  came,  and  when  he 
found  her  sewing  in  a  bedroom  with  a  sick  child 
in  the  bed  and  other  dirty  youngsters  playing  near 
her  work,  he  took  away  her  license.  From  the 
view-point  of  the  higher  civilization,  this  was  un- 
questionably the  right  thing  to  do,  but  to  the  mother, 
in  her  ignorance  of  law  and  cleanliness,  and  with 
the  great  burden  in  her  heart,  it  seemed  cruelly 
despotic. 

One  day,  long  to  be  remembered  for  its  intol- 
erable heat,  Rosa  went  into  convulsions.  Car- 
bone  hurried  to  the  doctor.  The  Spaniard  was  a 
little,  skinny  man  with  sandy  hair  and  a  patch  of 
beard  upon  either  cheek.  His  cunning,  red-rimmed 
eyes  peered  sharply  through  the  spectacles  which 
bridged  his  hooked  nose.  His  lean  hands  were 
never  quiet ;  they  seemed  grasping,  grasping.  The 
student  had  guessed  his  race  correctly. 

"  Pring  der  childt  to  me,"  he  said,  and  Scarabini 
translated.  Biaggio  explained  that  he  dared  not 
move  Rosa  from  the  bed.  The  Spanish  doctor 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Money,"  he  said,  laconically. 


THE  SPANISH  DOCTOR  71 

Biaggio  turned  his  pockets  inside  out.  He  had 
only  twenty-three  cents. 

"  Get  out !  "  sneered  the  doctor.  "  Don'd  dry 
no  dricks  on  me.  You  Dagoes  all  have  money  hid 
in  your  sdockins  or  your  coad-dails ! " 

By  way  of  translation,  Scarabini  pointed  to  the 
door.  This  was  language  which  Carbone  under- 
stood. Almost  mad  with  grief,  he  fell  at  the  doc- 
tor's feet  and  begged  in  the  name  of  all  the  saints 
in  the  calendar  that  the  good  doctor  would  come  to 
his  little  Rosa.  The  assistant  took  him  by  the 
collar  and  pushed  him  out  of  doors.  When  he 
found  himself  thrust  into  the  street  he  cast  a  look 
of  hatred  at  the  office  of  the  Spanish  doctor.  It 
was  the  look  that  denotes  a  form  of  slow  rage  which 
often  leads  to  the  quick  plunge  of  a  knife  in  an 
unsuspecting  back.  Then  the  look  of  agony  re- 
turned as  he  thought  of  his  "  Pearl  of  Italy."  In 
an  instant  he  remembered  the  doctor  at  St.  Luke's. 
Could  he  hope,  with  his  poor  English,  to  make  il 
signore  dottore  understand  his  great  need?  He 
would  try.  Would  he  be  forgiven  for  disregard- 
ing instructions  and  going  elsewhere  for  help? 
He  hoped  so.  The  Americans  are  very  merciful. 

The  house  was  a  house  of  mourning.  The  alley 
in  front  of  it  was  crowded  with  wildly  gesticulating 


72      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

Italians,  the  hallways  were  swarming  with  weeping 
women  and  children.  When  trouble  comes  in  Lit- 
tle Italy,  the  neighborhood  shares  the  excitement. 

In  the  airless  little  room  where  Rosa  lay,  her 
brothers  and  sisters  were  sobbing  aloud  and  a 
dozen  neighbor  women  were  wringing  their  hands. 
Only  the  mother  was  silent ;  she  sat  beside  the 
bed,  blood  trickled  down  her  cheeks,  and  at  every 
convulsion  of  the  sufferer,  she  rocked  to  and  fro 
and  dug  her  finger-nails  again  and  again  into  her 
lacerated  face.  When  Burroughs  entered  with 
Carbone  he  was  reminded  of  an  oldtime  story 
learned  in  childhood,  and  he  put  the  mourners  out 
of  the  room  and  shut  the  door  upon  them.  Only 
the  parents  saw  the  gentle,  skillful  touch  with  which 
he  worked  over  the  dying  child.  Carbone  was 
very  calm,  but  the  mother  still  swayed  to  and  fro 
unmindful  of  her  bleeding  face,  her  eyes  riveted 
upon  her  darling.  At  length  Burroughs  motioned 
the  father  to  be  seated,  saying  quietly,  — 

"  It  will  be  over  in  a  few  moments." 

Though  he  understood  but  little  English,  Car- 
bone  guessed  the  student's  meaning,  and,  taking  a 
crucifix  from  the  head  of  the  bed,  he  laid  it  gently 
on  the  baby's  pillow  and  dropped  upon  his  knees 
by  his  wife's  side. 

Burroughs  stood  with  his  finger  on  the  tiny  wrist 


THE  SPANISH  DOCTOR  73 

where  the  pulse  fluttered  faintly.  He  could  feel 
the  hot  steaming  air,  laden  with  the  odors  of  a 
dozen  Italian  dinners,  wafted  in  at  the  window  in 
regular  waves.  The  sleepy  buzz  of  flies  grated 
upon  his  ears ;  the  sight  of  them  as  they  settled 
upon  the  white  face  sickened  him,  and  with  his  free 
hand  he  constantly  drove  them  away.  On  the 
wall  opposite  hung  a  deep,  glass-inclosed  frame 
containing  the  plate  and  handles  of  a  baby's  cas- 
ket. In  a  few  days,  he  knew,  little  Rosa's  would 
hang  beside  them. 

Little  by  little  the  paroxysms  grew  less  frequent. 
Little  by  little  the  rigid  shadows  settled  upon  the 
drawn  face.  It  was  the  moment  of  pause  before 
the  final  struggle.  Burroughs  stood  alert,  his 
finger  on  the  pulse. 

Suddenly  the  door  was  opened  with  a  bang,  the 
Italian  interpreter  entered,  briskly  professional, 
while  lurking  in  the  shadow  was  the  Spanish  doc- 
tor. The  chattering  group  in  the  hall  crowded 
to  the  doorway,  but  fortunately,  were  awed  into 
silence. 

"  You  here  !  "  sneered  Scarabini,  as  he  saw  who 
was  standing  beside  the  bed. 

Burroughs's  face  flamed  scarlet,  but  he  did  not 
take  his  finger  from  the  expiring  pulse.  With  his 
free  hand  he  pointed  to  the  child. 


74      THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  Keed  dead?  "  asked  the  Spanish  doctor  in  his 
greasy  voice. 

"  Not  dead,"  replied  Burroughs,  striving  to  re- 
strain himself,  "but  nearly  so,  thanks  to  you. 
Have  you  decided  to  take  the  case  again  ?  " 

The  Spanish  doctor  grinned.  He  slipped  be- 
hind his  deputy,  however,  for  he  saw  a  dangerous 
gleam  in  the  eye  of  the  young  American  before 
him. 

"  I  thoughd  I  vould  come  and  take  avay  mein 
medicine,"  he  said,  softly. 

"  Take  it,  and  be  hanged  to  you !  "  exclaimed 
Burroughs,  wrathf  ully  ;  "  take  it  and  go.  But  hear 
what  I  say  to  you.  As  sure  as  there  is  a  God, 
you  '11  hear  from  this.  You  shall  not  go  around 
defrauding  these  poor  people  out  of  their  money 
and  their  lives.  If  there  is  justice  in  this  city  for 
such  as  you,  I  '11  raise  heaven  and  earth  to  bring 
you  to  it.  Get  out  of  here  before  I  put  you  out ! 
Go!" 

Scarabini  went  over  to  the  table  and  seized  the 
pint  bottle  from  a  heap  of  dirty  dishes.  The 
Spanish  doctor  sidled  toward  the  door.  He  was 
smirking  still. 

"  Prut-te-tut-tut,"  he  said,  with  a  taunting  ges- 
ture. "  Vat  vill  you  do,  young  man  ?  You  are  a 
keed.  You  know  noddings.  I  have  license  to 


THE  SPANISH  DOCTOR  75 

bragdice ;  you  haf  nod.  My  medicine  is  nod  poi- 
son. The  law  brodegs  me.  You  can  do  noddings. 
I  vill  pid  you  good-day." 

He  bowed  mockingly  and  backed  out  of  the 
room,  Scarabini  following,  while  Burroughs  stood 
trembling  with  helpless  rage.  He  knew  that  the 
Spanish  doctor  had  the  advantage  over  him,  and 
that  neither  he  nor  Carbone  could  hope  for  re- 
dress. 

Then  what  they  were  waiting  for  came.  The 
baby  voice  rang  in  a  sharp  cry;  the  tiny  hands 
clutched  and  tore  the  black  hair ;  the  little  wasted 
body  heaved  thrice  in  an  awful  convulsion.  And 
all  the  father's  days  of  toil  had  gone  for  naught 
and  all  the  mother's  prayers  had  been  in  vain. 
For  the  spirit  had  torn  itself  free  from  its  prison 
forever. 

Then  the  watchers  in  room  and  hall  and  street 
heard  a  dreadful  shriek,  as  the  mother-heart  broke 
and  an  unconscious  form  fell  across  the  little  dead 
body. 


CHAPTER  VH 
RENUNCIATION 

THERE  was  very  little  that  was  consecutive 
about  life  and  work  at  St.  Luke's.  Each  day 
brought  new  episodes  and  when  one  was  closed 
another  equally  absorbing  took  its  place  and 
crowded  out  what  had  gone  before.  Sometimes  in 
his  rare  moments  of  leisure,  Burroughs,  becoming 
reminiscent,  would  recall  this  or  that  unique  ex- 
perience through  which  he  had  passed.  Without 
his  realization  these  episodes  were  moulding  them- 
selves into  the  impetus  which  led  him  to  take  up 
with  a  growing  devotion  the  cause  of  the  poor  Ital- 
ian people.  That  they  were  dirty,  that  many  of 
them  were  tricky  almost  beyond  belief,  Burroughs 
knew  well ;  but  as  he  studied  the  conditions  of  their 
lives,  he  wondered  that  they  were  no  more  depraved 
than  he  found  them,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  their 
appreciation  of  kindness  and  devotion  to  those  who 
befriended  them,  made  much  of  Burroughs's  work 
a  pleasure. 

The   episode  of  the  Spanish  doctor  was   kept 


RENUNCIATION  77 

fresh  in  the  interne's  mind  by  frequent  encounters 
with  Scarabini  and  the  familiar  sight  of  the 
"  Spaniard's "  huge  bottles  of  medicine  in  the 
houses  to  which  he  was  called.  He  never  con- 
sented to  take  a  case  unless  assured  that  Scara- 
bini's  employer  had  abandoned  it,  and  he  realized 
that  no  open  attack  upon  the  impostor  would  be 
successful,  nor  would  any  underhanded  methods  of 
defaming  Scarabini  be  honorable.  But  the  grad- 
ual downfall  of  the  Spanish  doctor  and  his  hench- 
man came  by  most  natural  processes.  Burroughs' s 
kindness  to  Carbone's  child  and  the  rude  words 
and  insulting  manners  of  the  other  men  had  made 
a  deep  and  ineffaceable  impression  upon  the  awe- 
stricken  crowd  that  witnessed  little  Rosa's  death. 

The  fame  of  the  American  doctor  spread  abroad 
in  the  Spring  Hill  district,  and  before  cold  weather 
began  Bur  roughs' s  practice  had  nearly  doubled  and 
the  Spanish  doctor  felt  a  falling  off  in  trade. 

Biaggio  Carbone  came  up  to  St.  Luke's  one 
evening  with  a  thank-offering  for  il  dottore.  Bur- 
roughs admitted  him,  only  to  be  astonished  by  the 
sight  of  a  plump  rooster  which  Biaggio  deposited 
in  the  middle  of  the  office  floor,  informing  the  in- 
terne in  broken  English  and  with  much  pantomime 
that  the  fowl  was  a  gift.  The  rooster  was  much 
more  at  ease  than  was  Burroughs,  and  was  soon 


78     THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

strutting  to  and  fro  and  uttering  an  occasional 
"  c-rr  c-rr  "  of  perfect  satisfaction.  Burroughs  was 
deeply  touched  by  this  token  of  regard,  which  must 
have  cost  the  poor  Italian  many  hours  of  toil,  but 
he  did  not  know  what  he  should  do  with  it.  Later 
he  settled  the  matter  by  presenting  the  bird  to  his 
boarding-house  mistress,  who  fricasseed  it  for  din- 
ner the  following  Sunday. 

Biaggio  stood  and  looked  wistfully  into  the 
young  man's  face  as  if  he  longed  to  give  some 
better  expression  of  the  gratitude  he  felt  for  the 
student's  kindness  to  little  Eosa. 

"  Much-a  t'ank,  much-a  t'ank,"  he  said  again  and 
again,  patting  Burroughs  softly  upon  the  shoulder. 

"  How  is  your  wife  ? "  Burroughs  asked,  but 
Carbone  could  not  understand.  Burroughs  learned 
afterwards  that  she  sat  all  day  like  one  in  a  dream, 
unmindful  of  what  was  going  on  around  her. 

Biaggio  pointed  once  more  to  the  rooster,  who 
was  cocking  his  bright  eyes  at  the  lamp-light,  re- 
peated again  the  words  "  much-a  t'ank,"  and  went 
out  into  the  street,  followed  by  Burroughs's  hearty 
"  Good  luck  to  you." 

The  bright  fall  days  brought  a  pleasant  change 
to  the  old  hill.  There  was  a  spirit  of  renewed 
activity  in  the  air ;  men  stepped  briskly  to  their 


RENUNCIATION  79 

work  in  the  early  frosty  mornings ;  women  spent 
less  time  gossiping  on  the  curbstones  and  the  chil- 
dren, barefoot  no  longer,  rushed  off  to  school  with 
an  energy  born  of  clean  faces  and  best  clothes. 
Window  blinds  were  left  open  now,  to  admit  the 
sunshine,  and  bunches  of  red  and  green  peppers 
hung  from  the  shutters,  while  pans  of  crushed 
tomatoes  on  the  window  ledges  added  a  touch  of 
color  to  the  dingy  neighborhood.  The  wind  from 
the  bay  blew  salt  and  cool  and  an  odor  of  grapes 
was  in  the  air,  for  it  was  wine-making  time.  Piles 
of  grape-seeds  lying  in  the  gutters  awaited  the 
nightly  round  of  the  street  cleaners,  and  showed 
that  in  even  the  humblest  homes  the  grape-treaders 
had  been  at  work. 

The  medical  school  opened  the  last  week  in 
September  and  a  few  days  later  Margaret  Worth- 
ington  returned  from  her  European  trip.  No  one 
outside  her  immediate  family  circle  knew  of  the 
attachment  between  Miss  Worthington  and  the 
interne  at  St.  Luke's.  It  had  begun  in  a  youthful 
friendship  of  high  school  days  when  Margaret,  the 
most  popular  girl  in  her  class,  had  befriended  the 
sensitive  boy  who  helped  the  janitor  out  of  school 
hours.  She  had  incidentally  learned  his  story ;  a 
not  uncommon  one,  but  it  had  touched  her  young 
imagination.  Burroughs's  father  was  a  man  of 


80     THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

large  property,  whose  sudden  death  had  left  an 
invalid  wife  and  a  boy  of  ten  years,  at  the  mercy 
of  unscrupulous  lawyers.  In  a  few  months,  the 
widow  found  herself  in  almost  abject  poverty  and 
the  boy  began  to  work  before  he  was  through  the 
grammar  school.  By  the  time  the  high  school 
course  was  finished,  a  firm  friendship  existed  be- 
tween Margaret  and  Burroughs.  The  young  man's 
mind  was  made  up  to  a  professional  life  and  his 
interests  led  him  to  the  study  of  medicine.  His 
only  source  of  revenue  lay  in  himself  and  there 
was  no  honest  work  to  which  he  was  unwilling  to 
turn  his  attention.  The  summers  during  his  high 
school  course  had  been  spent  in  serving  as  bell-boy 
at  a  fashionable  seashore  hotel.  During  the  vaca- 
tion following  his  freshman  year  in  the  medical 
school  he  had  taken  agencies  for  books  and  photo- 
graphs, journeying  through  up-county  districts  with 
great  success.  During  the  school  year  he  waited 
on  tables  in  a  restaurant  in  rush  hours  and  tutored 
the  backward  son  of  a  rich  man  in  Latin  and 
mathematics.  Fortunately  for  him,  in  his  junior 
year  he  was  assigned  a  scholarship,  and  through 
Raymond's  kindness  was  appointed  interne  at  St. 
Luke's.  Thus  for  the  first  time  since  childhood, 
he  was  comparatively  free  from  financial  anxiety. 
As  Margaret  grew  older  and  came  in  touch  with 


RENUNCIATION  81 

the  young  people  of  the  fashionable  circle  in  which 
she  moved,  she  found  herself  testing  every  man 
she  met  by  her  quiet,  self-effacing,  earnest  friend. 
He  was  different  from  others,  she  discerned,  and 
before  she  realized  it,  he  had  become  her  ideal  and 
the  standard  which  she  set  for  young  manhood. 
On  Burroughs's  part,  she  grew  more  and  more  the 
goal  of  his  ambitions.  To  him  there  was  always 
peace  where  she  was,  and  after  the  death  of  his 
mother,  she  became  his  all.  There  was  very  little 
love-making  between  the  two.  Their  courtship  was 
not  a  transport  of  demonstrations,  but  rather  a 
steady  growth  of  mutual  confidence,  a  dream  of 
ultimate  oneness. 

The  evening  following  Margaret's  return  from 
Europe,  Burroughs  dressed  himself  with  care  and 
went  uptown  to  call  upon  her.  He  spent  an  hour 
of  delight  looking  at  photographs  and  souvenirs, 
listening  to  her  voice  and  watching  the  light  and 
shadow  play  upon  her  hair  as  she  sat  in  the  lamp- 
light. She  had  brought  him  a  tinted  photograph 
of  the  Bay  of  Naples,  daintily  framed,  having  se- 
lected it  as  particularly  appropriate  in  view  of 
Burroughs's  work  among  the  Italians.  He  was 
naturally  delighted  with  it.  The  evening  was  one 
of  the  happiest  they  had  ever  spent  together,  and 
when  they  parted  Burroughs  held  her  in  close  em- 


82     THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

brace  and  told  her,  as  he  had  often  told  her  before, 
that  he  had  no  right  to  let  her  waste  her  youth 
waiting  for  him,  but  that  if  she  would  be  patient 
he  would  surely  win  his  way,  through  her  inspira- 
tion and  for  her  sake.  And  she  told  him,  as  she 
had  done  many  times,  that  she  loved  him  better 
every  day,  and  that  the  time  she  spent  waiting 
for  him  could  not  be  wasted,  though  she  waited  a 
thousand  years. 

The  next  day  Burroughs  was  summoned  to  Mr. 
Worthington's  counting-room.  His  mind  was  surg- 
ing with  hopes  and  questions,  but  his  face  was  very 
calm  when  he  was  ushered  into  the  private  office. 

"  I  have  sent  for  you  this  afternoon,  Mr.  Bur- 
roughs," the  merchant  said,  in  the  rapid,  incisive 
tones  of  a  busy  man,  "  to  speak  to  you  about  your 
attentions  to  Miss  Worthington." 

Burroughs  bowed. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  be  misunderstood.  I  am 
neither  proud  nor  prejudiced.  I  honor  the  men 
who  fight  for  places  in  the  world.  "  But "  —  he 
hesitated  as  if  a  little  disconcerted  by  Burroughs's 
level  gaze  —  "  you  cannot  marry  my  daughter." 

Burroughs  did  not  speak. 

"  You  are  a  perfectly  respectable  young  man," 
went  on  the  father,  "  and  Mrs.  Worthington  as- 
sures me  that  your  relations  with  our  daughter 


RENUNCIATION  83 

have  been  candid  and  beyond  reproach.  But  you 
are  poor  and  are  likely  to  be  so  for  some  time  to 
come.  It  is  all  very  well  to  talk  about  waiting, 
and  love  in  a  cottage  ;  but  that  is  better  in  litera- 
ture than  in  life.  I  did  not  realize  how  serious 
matters  had  become  until  I  had  a  talk  with  my 
daughter  last  evening  after  your  call.  Then  I  saw 
it  was  best  to  act  at  once.  I  will  admit  that  it  was 
only  after  extreme  protest  that  she  relinquished  the 
keepsakes  which  you  have  given  her  at  different 
times.  Here  they  are.  Now  if  you  will  kindly 
agree  to  return  any  trifles  she  may  have  given  you 
and  will  promise  me  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with 
her,  I  will  not  detain  you  longer." 

As  Mr.  Worthington  proceeded,  Burroughs,  who 
had  remained  standing,  grew  very  white.  He 
clutched  the  back  of  a  chair  to  steady  himself,  and 
as  the  older  man  paused,  he  tried  to  reply,  but 
something  caught  in  his  throat.  In  a  moment, 
however,  he  regained  his  poise  sufficiently  to  say,  — 

"  Did  Miss  Worthington  know  that  you  were 
going  to  say  this  to  me  ?  " 

"  She  did." 

"  Then  she  will  not  misunderstand  my  silence  ?  " 

"  She  will  not." 

There  was  a  pause.  Burroughs's  throat  and 
tongue  were  parched,  his  lips  dry  and  bloodless. 


84     THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  my  honest  affection 
for  your  daughter  is  to  be  set  aside  simply  because 
I  am  poor  ?  " 

Mr.  Worthington  looked  a  bit  uncomfortable. 

"  I  mean  to  say,"  he  replied,  "  that  boy  and  girl 
love  is  not  necessarily  eternal.  Scatter  the  fire  on 
the  hearth  and  it  dies  out." 

"  Is  your  decision  final  ?  "  asked  the  young  man 
after  a  pause. 

"  It  is." 

"  Then  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  that  I  will 
follow  your  instructions  implicitly." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  But,"  added  Burroughs,  with  spirit,  "  there  is 
no  one  in  the  world  who  can  prevent  me  from  car- 
ing for  your  daughter.  I  have  loved  her  too  long 
for  that  and  I  will  love  her  to  the  end  of  my  life." 

"  I  will  not  detain  you  longer,"  said  Mr.  Worth- 
ington, turning  to  his  desk. 

Burroughs  stopped  at  the  door.  His  voice  was 
broken,  now. 

"  I  will  return  her  gifts  by  mail  to-night,"  he  said, 
"  excepting  —  May  I  keep  her  photograph  ?  " 

"You  may  not,"  replied  Mr.  Worthington,  not 
looking  up. 

"  Good-day,  sir." 

"  Good-day." 


RENUNCIATION  85 

Burroughs  wondered  why  he  felt  so  calm  as  he 
walked  back  to  St.  Luke's.  Except  for  a  kind  of 
light-headedness,  he  would  never  have  known  from 
his  feelings  that  anything  had  hurt  him.  He  for- 
got that  the  shock  of  the  knife  plunge  temporarily 
benumbs  the  flesh.  Unfortunately  for  his  mood, 
he  had  invited  Raymond  to  have  a  macaroni  supper 
with  him  that  night  at  Pastorelli's.  Burroughs 
was  a  very  frank  fellow,  not  given  to  dissembling, 
and  the  task  of  covering  his  feelings  with  a  show 
of  gayety  grew  momentarily  more  formidable  as  the 
dinner  hour  approached. 

Of  course  Raymond  was  in  a  particularly  sunny 
frame  of  mind.  Looking  back  upon  the  evening, 
Burroughs  viewed  it  as  a  dream  in  which  he  him- 
self had  taken  a  part  of  hysterical  gayety.  Pas- 
torelli's wife  sat  behind  the  candy  counter  when 
they  entered,  and  one  of  the  six  scions  of  the  house 
presided  over  the  fruit  bench.  Giorgio,  the  yellow 
dog,  hovered  near  the  peanut  roaster.  The  woman 
came  forward  smiling,  seized  Burroughs's  hand  and 
kissed  it.  Raymond  was  not  prepared  for  this, 
and  had  great  difficulty  in  restraining  his  mirth. 
The  boy  among  the  bananas  grinned  shyly. 

u  Hello  !  "  exclaimed  Burroughs,  "  how  is  my 
friend  Pasquale  this  evening  ?  "  The  boy  looked 
sheepish  and  stuck  his  fingers  into  his  mouth. 


86     THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  He  is  her  favorite  child  and  she 's  always 
pleased  that  I  remember  his  name,"  Burroughs 
explained.  "  She  does  not  know  that  the  only 
reason  I  can  distinguish  him  from  his  brothers  is 
because  he  is  cross-eyed." 

Burroughs  led  the  way  to  one  of  the  marble- 
topped  tables  behind  the  screen  that  shut  off  the 
fruit  benches.  Pastorelli's  wife  brought  two  bottles 
of  ginger  ale  from  the  small  tank  of  ice  water  in 
the  corner,  and  with  this  innocent  liquid  the  two 
men  refreshed  themselves  while  the  principal  dish 
of  the  repast  was  being  prepared.  Giorgio  at- 
tached himself  to  them  early  in  the  proceedings, 
but  finding  that  peanuts  were  not  forthcoming,  he 
sought  the  street  and  his  favorite  sport  of  chasing 
wagons  across  the  square. 

One  corner  of  the  shop  was  shut  off  by  a  flimsy 
board  partition,  and  here  the  wife  of  Pastorelli  pre- 
pared the  viands  which  were  cooked  to  order  for 
her  patrons.  There  was  a  small  aperture  cut 
through  this  partition,  with  a  shelf  adjusted  beneath 
it,  the  latter  being  neatly  covered  with  a  red  oil- 
cloth. It  was  through  this  opening  that  food  was 
supposed  to  be  handed  to  the  waiter,  but  as  that 
functionary  did  not  exist,  and  as  the  black  and 
yellow  cat  usually  sat  on  the  shelf,  the  effect  of 
this  modern  convenience  was  somewhat  destroyed. 


RENUNCIATION  87 

In  her  small  cook  room,  Pastorelli's  wife  rolled 
out  a  lump  of  dough  to  a  thin  sheet,  cut  it  into 
long,  narrow  strips,  and  put  it  into  the  kettle  of 
boiling  water  which  stood  on  her  oil  stove.  Then 
she  brought  a  bottle  of  tomato  sauce,  and  when 
the  macaroni  was  sufficiently  boiled,  she  drained 
off  the  water,  added  dried  parsley  leaves,  and 
poured  the  sauce  over  all.  Then  she  heaped  two 
soup-plates  and  set  them  before  Burroughs  and  his 
guest  with  a  smile  of  self-satisfaction,  for  she  was 
very  proud  of  her  home-made  macaroni.  Eaymond 
had  considerable  difficulty  in  manipulating  the 
long  pieces,  which  persistently  slipped  away  before 
he  could  convey  his  fork  from  plate  to  mouth. 
Burroughs,  who  would  not  allow  him  to  cut  the 
strips,  amused  himself  by  laughing  at  his  friend's 
efforts,  while  Pastorelli's  wife  sat  afar  off,  smiling 
and  crooning,  "  Yes-a,  yes-a,  nice-a,"  till  other  cus- 
tomers absorbed  her  attention.  When  the  maca- 
roni dishes  were  empty,  a  salad  was  served,  with  a 
dressing  of  good  olive  oil  and  grape  vinegar.  This 
was  easier  to  eat,  and  conversation  might  have 
flowed  more  freely  but  for  the  fact  that  both  men 
grew  preoccupied  as  time  went  by.  At  length, 
when  conversation  reached  an  absolute  standstill, 
Raymond  exclaimed,  — 

"  How  talkative  we  are !  " 


88  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  I  am  tired  to-night,  Walter.  You  must  for- 
give me  for  keeping  quiet.  But  why  are  you  so 
still  ?  You  like  to  talk  —  you  know  you  do  — 
and  I  like  to  hear  you.  So  go  on,  I  beg  of  you." 

Raymond  smiled  with  a  far-away  look  in  his 
eyes. 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  Phil,  just  what  is  the 
matter  with  me.  I  'm  trying  to  screw  up  my  cour- 
age to  propose  to  the  prettiest,  daintiest  little  girl 
in  the  world." 

"  You  do  not  need  to  do  a  great  deal  of  '  screw- 
ing '  for  that,  do  you,  Walter  ?  I  'm  inclined  to 
think  that  almost  any  girl  of  your  acquaintance 
would  be  glad  to  marry  you." 

"  Don't  flatter  me,  Phil,"  answered  Raymond, 
earnestly.  "  I  know  just  about  what  I  'm  worth 
and  it 's  very  little.  Perhaps  time  will  develop  the 
original ;  I  certainly  hope  so.  But,  you  see,  the 
trouble  with  me  in  the  past  has  been  that  I  have 
not  dared  to  get  well  enough  acquainted  with  a  girl 
to  decide  whether  or  not  I  want  her  for  keeps." 

"  That  is  a  great  excuse  for  you  to  make  !  " 

"  Well,  it  is  true,  at  any  rate.  I  tell  you  what 
it  is,  Phil,  I  'm  afraid  of  the  young  girls  ;  they  are 
always  misunderstanding  a  fellow." 

He  shivered  a  little  as  if  at  an  embarrassing  re- 
miniscence. 


RENUNCIATION  89 

"  For  example  :  one  time  I  begged  a  girl  to  sing 
*  O,  Promise  Me,'  and  the  next  thing  I  knew  her 
brother  was  trying  to  find  out  when  I  intended  to 
ask  papa ! " 

"  It  served  you  right.  You  had  probably  been 
looking  unutterable  things  at  her  with  those  fetch- 
ing brown  eyes  of  yours." 

"  No,  indeed,  I  was  just  ordinarily  civil.  But 
since  then  I  've  been  very  shy.  I  don't  hesitate  to 
make  love  to  La  Signorina  and  some  of  those  older 
girls  —  they  don't  misunderstand;  but  when  it 
comes  to  my  contemporaries,  I  have  thought  it 
safer  to  be  a  gay  butterfly,  flitting  from  flower  to 
flower." 

"  Yes ;  and  breaking  a  heart  at  every  flit !  I 
know  you." 

"  I  do  not  believe  that.  There  's  nothing  heart- 
breaking about  me." 

"  Yes,  there  is." 

"  Well,  never  mind  that  part  of  the  story ;  let 
me  go  on.  At  last  I  have  settled  upon  some  one. 
Shall  I  tell  you  who  it  is  ?  Let  me  see  ...  no ; 
I  '11  wait  and  tell  you  later  if  my  suit  is  successful. 
She  is  a  dear,  sweet,  womanly  girl,  and  I  know 
you  will  be  pleased  at  the  match." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  you  happy,  Walter," 
Burroughs  answered,  bravely.  He  made  a  heroic 


90     THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

mental  attempt  to  be  unselfishly  pleased  at  his 
friend's  joy,  but  it  was  a  desperate  effort.  He 
fancied  he  knew  the  young  woman  —  a  pretty 
society  girl  of  whom  Raymond  had  talked  a 
good  deal  of  late ;  a  girl  largely  endowed  with 
talents  and  with  wealth. 

"  I  will  take  it  for  granted  that  you  will  be  suc- 
cessful," he  continued,  "  and  will  congratulate  you 
now  from  the  depths  of  my  heart.  Here  is  my 
hand  on  it." 

As  they  clasped  hands  across  Pastorelli's  mar- 
ble-topped table,  they  did  not  dream  that  there  was 
anything  tragic  in  the  act.  Months  afterward  the 
memory  of  that  friendly  grasp  came  back  to  Ray- 
mond with  startling  force. 

Burroughs  settled  the  bill  with  Pastorelli's  smil- 
ing wife,  and  Raymond  fed  peanuts  to  the  grateful 
Giorgio.  Then  the  two  friends  went  out  on  the 
square  and  parted  at  the  corner. 

Burroughs  for  the  time  abandoned  himself  to  his 
grief.  The  knowledge  of  Raymond's  prospective 
happiness  accentuated  his  pain.  He  went  to  his 
room  and  gathered  together  Margaret's  little  gifts, 
pressing  each  one  to  his  lips  as  if  it  were  a  holy 
relic.  Beads  of  perspiration  stood  on  his  forehead, 
but  his  eyes  were  dry  and  his  hand  was  steady. 
But  when  he  took  her  picture  out  of  its  case,  his 


RENUNCIATION  91 

fortitude  gave  way,  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands, 
and  sobbed  as  only  a  strong  man  can  sob  when 
mastered  by  grief. 

At  about  the  same  time,  Raymond,  entering  his 
office,  opened  a  compartment  in  his  desk  and  took 
out  a  photograph.  He  laid  it  upon  the  desk  and 
bent  over  it,  a  smile  of  happiness  breaking  through 
the  earnest  look  on  his  face. 

"  Little  girl,"  he  said  within  himself,  commun- 
ing thus  with  the  face  in  the  frame,  —  "  little  girl, 
will  you  love  me  all  the  days  of  your  life  ?  I  am 
saying  good-night  to  you,  dearest ;  good-night,  and 
God  bless  you.  Oh,  if  I  were  only  worthy  of 
you!" 

He  lifted  the  picture  and  laid  his  cheek  upon  it 
with  the  tender  reverence  with  which  he  would 
have  folded  its  prototype  to  his  heart.  Then  he 
laid  it  back  in  its  place,  and  "  Margaret,  darling !  " 
he  whispered,  softly. 

From  that  day  forward  Burroughs  plunged  into 
his  work  with  hysterical  energy.  The  hope  that 
dies  hard  flickered  in  his  breast,  but  the  future  was 
a  blank.  His  parents  had  named  him  Philip 
Melancthon,  and  some  of  the  sturdy  reformer's 
devotion  to  conviction  seemed  reincarnated  in  his 
heart.  But  the  path  he  walked  with  outward 
calm  was  the  Way  of  the  Cross  to  him ;  his  step 


92     THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

lost  its  buoyancy ;  stern  lines  settled  at  the  •  cor- 
ners of  his  mouth,  and  the  boy-look  died  out  of  his 
eyes. 

Yet  sometimes  as  he  bent  over  the  beds  of  the 
dying,  he  seemed  to  feel  Margaret's  breath  upon 
his  cheek ;  to  hear  her  words  in  his  ear,  "  My 
love  for  you  grows  stronger  every  day.  I  will  wait 
for  you,  though  I  wait  a  thousand  years." 


CHAPTER  VIII 
A  WRECKED  LIFE 

FROM  the  north  transept  of  the  church  a  broad 
thoroughfare  runs  down  to  the  water  front,  and 
the  inhabitants  of  this  avenue  and  its  adjacent 
streets  are  of  a  different  type  from  the  dwellers  on 
Spring  Hill.  It  is  as  if  a  ship's  prow  had  run 
inland,  furrowing  a  triangular  space  with  its  apex 
at  Santa  Maria  and  its  base  at  the  wharves.  All 
this  imaginary  track  of  a  ship  is  tinged  with  the 
sea.  Chandlers'  shops  display  ropes,  anchors,  and 
tarpaulins ;  sailors'  boarding-houses,  conducted  by 
rosy-cheeked  Swedish  women,  contrast  sharply 
with  sailors'  dance-halls,  kept  by  reprobate  Ameri- 
cans, and  the  rolling  gait  and  sea  songs  of  sailors 
from  many  ports  give  a  distinctive  atmosphere  to 
the  locality.  It  is  this  wedge-shaped  section  which 
separates  the  Italian  and  the  Jewish  quarters. 

Burroughs  had  seen  nothing  of  John  Maxon  for 
several  weeks.  He  was  told  by  Brady,  that  pur- 
veyor of  local  news,  that  the  unfortunate  man  was 
still  in  the  vicinity,  and  Burroughs  often  wondered 


94     THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

if  it  was  not  his  duty  to  have  Maxon  consigned  to 
a  retreat.  The  student  had  learned,  however,  from 
years  of  rubbing  against  life's  sharp  corners,  that 
it  is  seldom  wise  to  interfere  in  matters  outside 
one's  province. 

On  Saturday  nights  Pacific  Avenue  is  full  of 
sailors,  and  venders  of  all  sorts  reap  a  rich  harvest. 
Here  are  sober-faced  Jews  with  bearded  chins,  and 
derby  hats  crowded  down  to  the  tops  of  their  ears. 
Wooden  trays  are  hung  from  their  necks,  display- 
ing a  tempting  collection  of  collar  buttons,  fringed 
with  shoestrings,  suspenders,  and  handkerchiefs. 
Here,  too,  is  the  ubiquitous  Italian  peanut  vender 
with  upturned  coat-collar  and  slouch  hat,  a  wire 
netting  protecting  his  wares  from  the  depredations 
of  small  boys.  A  little  further  down  the  street, 
another  Italian  is  popping  corn  in  a  glass-pro- 
tected hand-cart  by  the  flames  of  an  oil-lamp ; 
yonder  is  a  song-sheet  seller,  a  fruit  stand,  and  a 
blind  singer  playing  upon  an  accordion  and  sing- 
ing sentimental  ballads  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 
The  shops  along  the  avenue  are  brilliantly  lighted, 
and  down  near  the  water  front  hand-organ  players 
grind  out  their  lively  tunes  for  a  certain  stipend 
per  hour  in  front  of  the  bright  saloons  and  within 
the  alluring  dance-halls. 

One  Saturday  evening,  as  Burroughs  jostled  his 


A  WRECKED  LIFE  95 

way  through  the  crowds  on  the  avenue,  he  saw 
some  men  gathered  about  a  street  vender,  and 
heard  a  voice  announcing  the  merits  of  the  goods 
displayed.  There  was  something  familiar  about 
the  voice,  and  Burroughs  pushed  his  way  into  the 
crowd  until  he  could  see  the  man  in  the  centre.  It 
was  Maxon.  He  had  a  small  portable  table  cov- 
ered with  wire  baskets,  mats,  and  lamp-shades. 

"See,  gentlemen!"  he  was  exclaiming  as  Bur- 
roughs crowded  in ;  "I  hold  in  my  hand  the  great- 
est wonder  of  the  age.  From  these  ingeniously 
commingled  rings  I  will  produce  a  succession  of 
useful  and  indispensable  articles.  Watch  me  care- 
fully. First  we  have  a  mat  seven  inches  in  diame- 
ter. What  kind  of  a  mat  is  it,  gentlemen?  A 
flimsy  cotton  mat  ?  No.  A  rough  bamboo  mat  of 
Japanese  construction  ?  No.  A  mat  embroidered 
with  dirt-catching  butterflies  and  flowerets?  No. 
The  mat  which  I  hold  in  my  hand  is  a  firm,  neatly 
made  mat.  The  best  quality  of  wire  has  been 
employed  in  its  construction.  It  is  clean,  and  will 
not  catch  the  dust.  You  could  set  Washington 
monument  on  it  and  it  would  not  break.  You 
could  set  Mount  Vesuvius  on  it  and  the  tablecloth 
underneath  would  n't  be  so  much  as  scorched. 
What  a  boon  to  the  housekeeper !  You  married 
men  back  there,  keep  your  eye  on  this  wonderful 


96     THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

mat.  Just  the  thing  to  set  the  teapot  on.  As  the 
poet  says, '  What  is  home  without  a  teapot.'  Now, 
gentlemen,  watch  me  carefully." 

He  made  a  sort  of  pass  over  the  wire  mat,  with 
that  appearance  of  deftness  peculiar  to  the  demon- 
strators of  certain  lines  of  goods.  In  an  instant  he 
held  up  a  work-basket  for  the  interested  inspection 
of  his  audience,  and  went  on  to  describe  its  con- 
venience in  flowery  language.  Next  it  was  a  fruit 
dish,  then  a  skeleton  lamp  chimney,  and  last  of  all 
the  frame  for  a  lamp-shade. 

"  Now,  gentlemen,  how  many  of  these  useful  and 
elegant  articles  will  you  have  ?  They  are  invalu- 
able to  any  home,  so  simple  in  their  construction 
that  a  child  can  work  them.  Boys,  think  of  your 
dear  old  mothers  !  How  their  eyes  would  be  glad- 
dened by  the  sight  of  one  of  these  gems  of  useful- 
ness. '  A  boy's  best  friend  is  his  mother,'  as  the 
song  says.  Ah  !  how  true  it  is.  Only  ten  cents 
each,  gentlemen.  You  will  take  one  ?  Thank  you. 
Yes,  it  is  perfectly  simple.  Any  child  of  ten  can 
work  it.  This  way  first ;  then  so  ;  and  so.  That 
is  it.  You  will  have  two  ?  Thanks.  I  knew  by 
your  faces,  gentlemen,  that  you  know  a  good  thing 
when  you  see  it.  Thank  you ;  thank  you." 

"  I  will  take  one,"  said  Burroughs,  quietly,  as  he 
pushed  his  way  to  the  front  and  laid  a  dime  on  the 


A  WRECKED  LIFE  97 

table.  Maxon's  jaw  dropped,  and  the  jauntiness 
went  out  of  his  manner. 

"  Thank  you,  doctor,  thank  you.  You  are  very 
kind,"  he  murmured,  adding  in  a  whisper,  "  but 
don't  feel  obliged  to  take  one.  They  are  not  of 
the  least  use." 

"  I  know  that,"  replied  Burroughs,  "  but  I  want 
one  for  a  souvenir." 

Maxon  took  a  fresh  one  from  the  dilapidated 
satchel  at  his  feet.  Then  he  put  up  his  samples 
and  folded  his  table.  The  group  of  men  melted 
away,  leaving  Burroughs  and  Maxon  alone. 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  at  work,"  the  interne  said. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  is  a  good  thing,"  replied 
Maxon,  dejectedly.  "It  keeps  me  from  lodging 
at  the  police  station  or  roosting  among  the  rubbish 
•on  the  wharves.  Last  week  I  served  beers  at 
Smith's  dance  hall,  but  —  it  was  too  much.  I  am 
pretty  low  down  on  the  ladder,  but  there  are 
depths  to  which  I  have  n't  sunk  yet.  I  could  n't 
be  a  party  to  Smith's  business." 

"  Good  for  you !  "  replied  Burroughs,  heartily. 

"I  am  glad  you  were  willing  to  speak  to  me, 
doctor,"  Maxon  went  on,  plaintively.  "  I  have 
thought  of  you  very  often.  Sometimes  at  night 
when  I  can't  sleep  in  the  lodging  house,  I  walk  up 
to  your  place  and  think  about  you.  I  have  n't  told 


98     THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

you  yet  why  I  am  so  attached  to  you.  I  will  some 
day.  I  know  you  loathe  me ;  I  do  not  wonder  at 
it  and  I  do  not  mind." 

"  I  do  not  loathe  you,"  said  Burroughs,  ear- 
nestly ;  "  I  only  loathe  a  horrible  habit.  I  wish 
you  could  break  away  from  it  and  be  a  man.  I  am 
sure  you  were  born  to  better  things  than  this," 
indicating  the  wire  baskets  and  Pacific  Avenue  in 
one  sweeping  gesture. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  repeated  Maxon.  "  Yes, 
it  is  true  that  I  was  born  in  a  better  grade  of 
society  than  this.  But  it  is  too  late.  I  lost  my 
grip  long  ago.  Good-by,  good-by.  I  shall  have 
to  move  on  now.  We  are  allowed  to  remain  only 
twenty  minutes  in  one  place.  Good-by,  and  don't 
think  too  hard  of  me." 

The  next  evening  Burroughs  went  down  to  the 
rescue  mission  on  Pacific  Avenue.  He  had  a  sick 
patient  who  chanced  to  be  a  Protestant  and  wanted 
to  see  a  minister.  The  regular  Sunday  evening 
service  was  in  progress  when  he  entered  and  the 
room  was  well  filled.  The  majority  of  the  men 
were  obviously  indifferent  to  the  speaker,  but  here 
and  there  one  and  another  listened  with  eager 
wistfulness.  Three  old  topers  who  were  converted 
annually  when  cold  weather  set  in  were  on  the 
front  seat.  Just  back  of  them  was  a  huge  Irish 


A  WRECKED  LIFE  99 

sailor  comfortably  drunk.  He  insisted  upon  inter- 
rupting the  missionary's  remarks  with  excerpts 
from  comic  songs. 

"  You  must  be  quiet,  my  friend,"  said  the 
speaker,  kindly.  "  If  you  are  so  noisy  I  shall  have 
to  put  you  out." 

The  huge  man's  dull  wits  were  slow  in  grasping 
these  words,  but  when  at  last  they  had  penetrated 
his  muddled  brain,  he  rose  with  tipsy  dignity  and 
stepped  into  the  aisle. 

"  You  put  me  out !  "  the  giant  sneered,  as  he 
slowly  surveyed  the  missionary's  five  feet  six  inches, 
"  you  put  me  out !  I  'd  like  ter  see  yer  try ! " 

"  But,  my  friend,"  urges  the  speaker,  forgetting 
how  foolish  it  is  to  argue  with  an  intoxicated  man, 
"  you  would  not  disturb  this  service,  would  you  ? 
When  there  are  never-dying  souls,  sunk  in  wicked- 
ness all  about  you,  you  would  not  do  anything  to 
prevent  them  from  being  saved  ?  " 

"  Saved !  "  leered  the  man.  "  You  don't  want 
'em  saved.  Why!  if  us  blokes  was  converted, 
you  'd  be  out  of  yer  job.  You  don't  want  ter  save 
us." 

The  missionary  made  no  reply.  The  sailor 
settled  into  his  seat  again  and  soon  fell  asleep. 
A  man  on  the  other  side  of  the  room  rose  and  be- 
gan to  speak.  Burroughs  was  all  attention  in  an 


100  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

instant.  It  was  Maxon.  He  stood  up  to  testify 
to  his  conversion,  he  said,  and  he  went  on  to  tell 
of  the  wonderful  things  Heaven  had  been  doing 
for  him.  The  missionary  was  deeply  moved  and 
invited  him  to  sit  with  the  other  converts.  Then 
two  or  three  wrecks  of  humanity  shambled  to  the 
front  seat,  and  when  it  was  time  to  close  the  meet- 
ing the  missionary,  looking  across  the  room  at 
Burroughs,  asked  if  there  was  any  brother  present 
who  would  volunteer  to  come  forward  and  help 
him  talk  with  the  penitents.  Burroughs,  who  was 
raging  internally,  said  "  I  will,"  with  startling  em- 
phasis and  stalked  up  to  the  front  seat  and  sat 
down  by  the  disconcerted  Maxon. 

"  What  are  you  here  for  ?  "  he  asked,  sternly. 

"  Doctor  .  .  .  oh,  pray  pardon  me." 

"  Answer  my  question." 

"I  —  I  —  they  give  a  free  supper  to  the  con- 
verts every  night  after  service." 

"  Is  that  any  excuse  for  your  imposing  upon  a 
good  man  like  this  minister  ?  " 

"  No,  no  ;  I  have  done  very  wrong.  But  this  is 
the  first  time.  You  see,  I  have  spent  all  my  money 
for  lodging  and  "  — 

"  Morphine." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.  And  I  heard  about  this 
place  and  thought  I  would  try  it." 


A  WRECKED  LIFE  101 

Burroughs  sat  in  thought  for  a  moment. 

"  If  you  have  a  spark  of  manhood  left  in  you, 
you  will  get  out  of  here  at  once.  Or  else,"  he 
added,  after  further  thought,  "  you  will  tell  this 
minister  the  exact  truth.  Then  I  will  see  that  you 
have  a  good  supper  to-night,  and  to-morrow  you 
can  start  out  with  your  wire  baskets  again." 

"  No,  no !  "  hastily  exclaimed  Maxon.  "  You 
shall  not  do  such  a  thing  for  me.  I  will  not  take 
charity  from  you." 

"  Is  n't  it  better  to  take  honest  charity  honestly, 
than  to  juggle  with  solemn  things  and  fool  a  good 
man  as  you  have  done  to-night  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course ;  but  not  from  you  —  I 
could  n't  take  it  from  you.  If  only  I  could  ex- 
plain !  I  would  not  take  charity  from  you  to  save 
my  life.  Let  me  go !  Let  me  go !  You  have 
been  too  kind  to  me  already." 

He  rose  and  slunk  out.  Burroughs  did  not  at- 
tempt to  detain  him.  When  the  missionary  had 
finished  with  his  converts  and  had  sent  them  up- 
stairs for  their  supper,  he  turned  to  Burroughs  in 
surprise. 

"  Where  's  that  man  you  were  talking  to  ?  "  he 
asked. 

Burroughs  told  him  what  he  knew  about  Maxon 
and  the  missionary  listened  intently.  He  had  the 


102  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

earnest,  anxious  eyes  common  to  men  whose  life 
work  is  among  the  unfortunate  and  vicious. 
When  Burroughs  had  finished  his  story,  the  mis- 
sionary sighed. 

"  It  is  a  great  trial  to  us  to  know  that  we  are 
imposed  upon,"  he  said ;  adding  with  a  sudden 
glow  of  feeling,  "  Yet  I  would  rather  be  fooled  a 
hundred  times  than  to  miss  one  genuine  case." 

Burroughs  told  the  errand  for  which  he  had 
come  to  the  mission  and  then  went  out,  glad  to  fill 
his  lungs  with  fresh  air  after  breathing  the  vitiated 
atmosphere  of  the  mission  hall. 

Down  in  a  dark  alley  off  Pacific  Avenue,  Maxon, 
with  tremulous  haste,  was  putting  his  last  dose  of 
morphine  into  his  needle-scarred  arm. 


CHAPTER  IX 
GUIDO  MASCARO'S  MARIA 

GUIDO  MASCAEO  kept  a  meat  and  vegetable 
market  in  that  part  of  the  Italian  quarter  where 
most  of  the  Sicilians  lived.  His  family  consisted 
of  his  young  wife  Maria,  and  his  old  mother,  who 
was  the  torment  of  his  existence.  Guido  employed 
two  youths  from  his  own  village  to  peddle  vege- 
tables through  the  district  on  push-carts  during  the 
summer,  but  the  bulk  of  his  business  was  done  in 
his  shop.  On  the  third  floor  above  were  the  two 
rooms  which  he  called  home,  and  here,  one  day,  he 
argued  with  his  mother,  who  was  preparing  dinner, 
while  Maria  tended  the  shop  downstairs. 

"  Pah !  "  Guido  cried,  "  I  will  have  no  old  wo- 
man !  Look  at  the  little  Tommaso  Vercelli,  with 
back  so  humped.  See  Bizzoni's  wife,  who  no  more 
can  walk  alone.  I  will  go  to  the  American  doctor 
on  the  hill.  My  Maria  shall  have  the  best.  I 
care  not  for  bandy-legged  babies.  So,  for  the  love 
of  the  Virgin,  be  still,  mother.  Keep  to  thy  pots 
and  thy  pans  and  now  to  thy  soup,  for  my  stomach 


104  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

is  empty.  Pah  on  thy  old  woman !  I  will  not 
have  her." 

"  Satan  seat  thee  at  his  right  hand,  thou  sneerer," 
screamed  old  Bettina,  waving  her  ladle.  "  Seventy 
years  I  have  lived  and  sixteen  children  I  have 
borne  and  no  American  lent  a  hand.  Is  thy  Maria 
so  much  better  than  thine  own  mother  ?  Thee  will 
see  who  will  win,  I  who  am  very  wise,  or  thee  with 
thy  silly  American  doctor  who  as  yet  has  not  a 
hair  on  his  face." 

"  Thy  old  woman  has  many  hairs  on  her  face," 
laughed  Guido,  snapping  his  fingers.  "  Take  her 
to  the  barber,  mother,  for  I  warn  thee,  if  thou 
dost  bring  her  here  I  will  singe  the  hair  from  her 
face  as  Beppo,  the  butcher,  singes  pin-feathers 
from  a  plucked  goose !  " 

Bettina  grunted  expressively  and  bent  once  more 
above  her  soup  kettle.  She  did  not  deign  to  follow 
up  her  argument.  She  felt  secure  in  the  belief 
that  her  own  shrewd  wit  and  the  interposition  of 
the  blessed  saints  would  frustrate  the  unhallowed 
schemes  of  the  impertinent  Guido.  It  was  not  the 
first  time  that  the  two  had  quarreled  on  this  sub- 
ject, nor  was  it  to  be  the  last,  and  each  new  alter- 
cation only  left  the  mother  and  son  more  deter- 
mined to  succeed  in  their  conflicting  plans.  And 
through  it  all,  Maria,  the  object  of  the  strife,  would 


GUIDO  MASCARO'S  MARIA  105 

sit  by  the  window,  the  sunlight  picking  out  threads 
of  gold  in  her  red-brown  hair,  as  she  crooned  some 
Borghese  melody,  so  happy  that  no  thought  of 
coming  peril  could  disturb  her  spirits. 

Guido  went  up  to  the  clinic  at  St.  Luke's  one 
afternoon  and  told  Burroughs  and  La  Signorina 
all  about  it.  The  old  mother  had  faith  in  a  certain 
ancient  crone  who  was  supposed  to  be  the  espe- 
cial favorite  of  the  saints.  Guido,  who  had  come 
to  America  in  a  formative  period,  was  skeptical. 
He  believed  in  the  American  doctor.  Burroughs 
agreed  to  take  Maria's  case,  and  made  out  a  patient's 
card  in  her  favor,  which  Guido  bore  back  to  his 
tenement  in  triumph  and  shook  under  his  mother's 
sharp  nose  with  many  a  sneer  and  gibe.  Bettina 
viewed  the  bit  of  green  pasteboard  with  suspicion. 
She  believed  that  it  was  a  sort  of  diabolic  charm. 
One  night  she  arose  from  her  corner  by  the  stove 
and  stealthily  crept  into  the  tiny  bedroom  where 
Guido,  sprawling  on  the  high,  bunchy  bed,  lay 
sleeping  in  his  clothes,  as  was  his  custom.  She  had 
scarcely  begun  to  search  through  his  pockets  when 
he  awoke  and  drove  her  from  the  room  with  much 
muscular  expedition  and  language  which  left  no 
doubt  in  Bettina's  mind  that  her  son  would  not  be 
interfered  with.  After  that,  she  did  not  refer  to 
the  green  card  and  a  sort  of  armed  peace  ensued. 


106  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

Burroughs  was  long-suffering  and  it  was  fortu- 
nate, for  Guido  had  a  way  of  coming  up  the  hill  of 
an  evening  and  interrupting  the  student  at  his 
books  to  tell  him  stories  about  Maria,  made  pic- 
turesque by  broken  English  and  gestures  more 
eloquent  than  words.  He  told  how  he  had  first 
met  Maria  when  she  was  a  little  girl  and  he  a 
strapping  fellow  of  twenty-two.  He  had  seen  her 
dancing  amid  the  vines  on  the  hillside  above  their 
village,  with  the  sunshine  flecking  her  tawny  hair  — 
Guido  was  very  proud  of  that  hair,  "  like-a  zee 
gold-a,"  and  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  at  once. 
She  was  shy ;  her  father  was  the  proud  possessor  of 
a  tiny  vineyard  and  three  solid  silver  spoons.  So 
Guido  had  come  to  America  to  better  his  fortunes. 

"  Ah,  mia  Maria ! "  he  would  interpolate,  with  a 
gusty  sigh  at  the  memory  of  those  months  of  wait- 
ing, "  I  deed  love-a  'er-a !  " 

In  the  land  of  promise  he  had  worked  and  starved 
until  a  year  before,  he  had  gone  back  to  Italy, 
matched  the  old  man  spoon  by  spoon  with  good 
gold  pieces,  and  had  brought  the  daughter  back  in 
triumph.  But  his  old  mother  had  insisted  upon 
coming,  too !  Well,  the  blessed  saints  will  teach  a 
man  to  be  patient  if  he  pray  much  to  them.  We 
cannot  always  choose.  At  the  end  of  his  recitals 
he  would  lapse  into  silence,  his  chin  resting  upon 


GUIDO  MASCARO'S  MARIA  107 

his  breast,  till  Burroughs,  anxious  for  the  morrow's 
recitations,  would  say  kindly,  "  Well,  Guido !  "  and 
then  the  simple  soul  would  look  up  with  that  ex- 
pression of  absolute  trust  common  to  his  class  and 
say  with  conviction,  — 

"  I  t'ink-a  Americano  dottore  be-a  good-a  to 
mia  Maria." 

Then  he  would  throw  his  battered  cap  on  his 
curly  head,  say  "  Good-by,"  and  disappear  into  the 
night.  La  Signorina  went  to  see  Maria  and  re- 
turned to  St.  Luke  with  a  look  of  quiet  determina- 
tion in  her  eyes. 

"  What  we  will  do?  "  she  asked ;  "  Bettina  will 
have  that  old  woman  first  at  the  house  before  us. 
She  live  near.  And  so  prett'  is  Maria!  I  not 
like  that  old  woman  come  to  her." 

"  By  the  Lord  Harry !  "  exclaimed  Burroughs, 
using  his  favorite  oath,  "  she  shall  not  get  ahead 
of  us.  I  '11  warn  Guido  to  come  here  at  the  first 
sign.  Day  or  night  —  if  I  'm  not  at  school  —  I  '11 
be  ready  for  that  case." 

"  I  will  be  so,  too,"  said  La  Signorina,  quietly. 

Then  came  the  days  when  Burroughs  left  an  itin- 
erary of  his  visits  upon  the  office  desk,  so  that  he 
might  be  quickly  located  in  case  of  a  sudden  call. 
Then  came  the  nights  when  he  —  like  Guido  — 
slept  in  his  clothes,  ready  to  answer  the  office  bell 


108  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

on  an  instant.  Other  calls  came  and  were  faith- 
fully attended  to,  but  about  Maria's  case  there 
hung  an  especial  interest  which  lifted  it  out  of  the 
humdrum  of  similar  cases.  It  took  the  shape  in 
Burroughs's  mind  of  a  contest  between  superstition 
and  truth ;  the  nineteenth  century  and  the  dark 
ages. 

One  evening  he  was  sleeping  out  two  nights' 
weariness  in  one,  for  the  night  before  he  had  sat 
up  till  nearly  dawn  attending  to  some  extra  school 
work.  He  was  just  in  the  depths  of  his  first  sound 
sleep,  when  the  tinkle  of  the  little  bell  awoke  him 
and  sent  him  hastening  to  the  door.  Guide's  voice 
soon  told  the  story.  Burroughs  thrust  his  feet 
into  his  shoes,  threw  on  topcoat  and  cap,  seized  his 
satchel  and  rushed  out  of  doors.  In  front  of  the 
dispensary  stood  La  Signorina.  Burroughs  uttered 
an  exclamation  of  surprise.  He  had  expected  to 
go  to  her  boarding  place  to  call  her. 

"  You  think  I  not  watch  too,  dottore,"  she  said, 
noting  his  surprise.  "  I  see  Guido  come,  and  I  am 
ready." 

Burroughs  gave  her  his  arm  that  they  might 
walk  together  swiftly,  and  ordered  Guido,  who  had 
fallen  two  paces  behind,  to  lead  the  way. 

"Is  the  mother  with  Maria?"  the  student 
asked,  as  they  hurried  along. 


GUIDO  MASCARO'S  MARIA  109 

"  Nobawdy  veeth-a  Maria,"  panted  Guido,  over 
his  shoulder.  "Madre  go-a  get-a  old  vooman. 
Guido  go-a  get-a  dottore." 

"  Heavens  and  earth  !  "  ejaculated  Burroughs. 

La  Signorina  dropped  his  arm. 

"  Go,"  she  exclaimed,  with  determination,  "  go ; 
I  not  walk  so  fast.  I  come  with  Guido.  He  is 
good  man." 

It  was  against  Burroughs's  code  of  chivalry  to 
leave  a  woman  alone  in  the  slum  district  at  dead 
of  night  with  an  irresponsible  Sicilian,  but  Maria's 
claim  was  strong,  and  he  started  off  on  a  run. 

As  he  went  along  he  could  not  help  wondering 
if  it  were  really  worth  his  while  to  be  routed  out 
of  bed  for  a  simple  case  that  any  experienced  per- 
son could  attend  to  as  well  as  he.  Then  he  thought 
of  Guide's  trustful  assertion,  "  I  t'ink-a  dottore 
be-a  good-a  to  mia  Maria,"  and  all  doubts  on  that 
point  vanished  from  his  mind.  But  supposing  he 
should  be  too  late,  and  the  old  woman  should 
reach  the  tenement  before  him  ?  He  quickened 
his  steps  still  more.  Supposing  there  were  compli- 
cations with  which  he  had  never  met  ?  He  was 
only  a  student,  and  medical  students  are  painfully 
aware  of  their  limitations  despite  what  they  may 
often  assume.  He  could  only  do  his  best. 

There  was  something  which  Burroughs  did  not 


110  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

know.  It  was  the  fact  that  La  Levatrice,  unfor- 
tunately for  herself  and  her  patients,  had  acquired 
a  fondness  for  bad  American  whiskey.  When 
Bettina,  at  the  first  signal  of  distress,  had  hobbled 
off  to  the  neighboring  street,  and  had  climbed  four 
flights  of  stairs,  she  found  her  old  woman  just 
recovering  from  a  long  bout  with  the  whiskey  flask. 
Bettina,  who  had  learned  many  of  the  dark  ways 
of  American  civilization,  plied  the  sulky  Levatrice 
with  whiskey  till  her  inertia  was  overcome,  and  she 
pronounced  herself  ready  to  go  downstairs.  Bet- 
tina had  much  trouble  in  guiding  the  unsteady 
mountain  of  flesh  down  the  slippery  staircases,  but 
the  street  was  at  length  reached.  Here  La  Le- 
vatrice's  mood  changed ;  she  seated  herself  upon 
the  door-sill,  and  refused  to  proceed.  Bettina,  wild 
at  the  prospect  of  defeat,  lashed  her  with  sharp 
tongue  and  voice  that  quickly  ran  up  the  scale  and 
ended  in  a  shriek.  Unkempt  heads  were  thrust 
from  windows.  Voices  uttered  curses  and  maledic- 
tions ;  at  length  some  one  suggested  the  approach 
of  the  police  officer.  Thereupon  La  Levatrice  rose 
with  tipsy  dignity  and  followed  her  guide.  Two 
or  three  denizens  of  the  neighborhood,  who  had 
rushed  out  of  doors  at  the  sound  of  strife,  joined 
Bettina,  and  thus  escorted,  the  old  crone  led  her 
unsteady  companion  toward  the  scene  of  action. 


GUIDO  MASCARO'S  MARIA  111 

She  did  not  realize  how  much  time  had  been 
consumed  in  persuasion,  and  as  she  came  to  the 
end  of  her  own  street,  her  sharp  eyes  detected  the 
form  of  the  hated  American  as  he  passed  under 
the  gas-lamp  at  the  upper  end  of  the  street.  She 
did  not  know  it,  but  Burroughs  had  seen  her. 

"  It 's  nip  and  tuck,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  and 
tuck  shan't  get  it !  " 

Bettina  dragged  her  old  woman  onward  by  main 
force.  Burroughs  was  rushing  along  at  the  top  of 
his  speed.  He  had  a  greater  distance  to  go. 

"  Mother  of  God !  "  shrieked  Bettina,  "  he  will 
pass  us  on  the  steps,  on  the  stairway,  on  the  very 
door-sill  itself.  Quick!  Thou  beloved  of  the 
saints !  Let  not  the  devilish  American  boy  defeat 
thee!  Quick!  Quick!" 

The  house  was  reached  ;  she  dragged  her  charge 
inside,  shutting  the  door  with  a  bang,  and  pushing 
La  Levatrice  toward  the  stairway.  The  hag  had 
sense  enough  to  slowly  ascend  while  Bettina 
shrieked  through  the  darkness,  urging  haste. 
Then  her  voice  snapped  off  with  a  jerk  as  Bur- 
roughs flung  the  door  open  and  stumbled  in.  It 
was  so  dark  he  could  not  see,  but  he  heard  Bettina 
whining  beside  him,  and  caught  the  heavy  breath- 
ing of  La  Levatrice  in  front.  Thus  guided,  he 
sprang  up  the  staircase.  But  the  old  woman's 


112  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

strength  had  failed,  and  she  had  sunk  in  a  panting, 
greasy  heap  on  the  stairs.  Burroughs  stumbled 
over  her,  and  fell.  Bettina,  close  behind,  clutched 
at  his  calves,  and  he  felt  her  long,  sharp  nails  dig 
the  flesh,  while  La  Levatrice  buried  her  fat  hands 
in  his  hair.  He  was  excited  enough  to  have 
laughed  in  spite  of  his  discomfort,  had  it  not  been 
that  he  heard  above  stairs  that  sound  of  moaning 
which  tells  its  own  story.  Voices  he  heard,  too, 
for  all  the  women  in  the  house  had  rushed  to 
Maria's  aid.  To  them  he  cried  for  a  light,  and  it 
was  they  who  brought  a  lamp  and  extricated  him 
from  the  clutches  of  the  two  old  women. 

There  followed  in  Guide's  little  tenement  the 
hardest  battle  Burroughs  had  ever  fought,  and 
heaven  only  knows  what  would  have  been  the  out- 
come if  La  Levatrice  had  been  in  command.  She 
huddled  inertly  in  one  corner  of  the  kitchen,  while 
Bettina  sat  beside  her  rocking  to  and  fro  in  abject 
grief.  La  Signorina,  who  arrived  in  good  time 
with  Guido,  went  out  and  scolded  them  both 
roundly. 

It  was  nearly  sunrise  when  the  struggle  was 
over,  and  it  seemed  to  Burroughs  that  he  had 
never  seen  motherhood  so  beautiful  as  that  which 
lay  enshrined  in  the  little  bedroom  of  Guido  Mas- 
caro's  tenement.  He  and  La  Signorina  walked 


GUIDO  MASCARO'S  MARIA  113 

home  very  quietly.  It  had  been  a  hard  night  for 
both  of  them,  and  they  had  little  to  say.  When 
they  reached  the  crown  of  the  hill,  they  paused  a 
moment  in  silence.  The  sky  arched  vast  and  blue 
above  them,  with  the  tree-boughs  of  the  burying- 
ground  penciled  in  feathery  gray  against  it.  The 
great  gold  crosses  on  the  towers  of  Santa  Maria 
caught  the  first  flush  of  dawn.  The  harbor  was 
like  liquid  opal.  As  they  paused,  a  bugle's  silvery 
note  sounded  reveille  from  the  fort  at  the  har- 
bor's mouth,  and  the  city's  day  had  begun. 

Burroughs  drew  a  deep,  full  breath.  "  Signor- 
ina,"  he  said  softly,  "  this  has  been  worth  while." 

"  I  not  know  what  you  mean  '  worth  while,' " 
she  said,  earnestly,  "  but  I  did  hear  the  great 
thanks  of  Guido;  I  did  see  the  happy  eyes  of 
Maria.  That  is  enough,  dottore  ;  that  is  enough." 


CHAPTER  X 
A  HEART  SPECIALIST 

BURROUGHS  knew  Celestia  Carmanti  in  the  gen- 
eral, impersonal  way  in  which  he  was  acquainted 
with  all  his  neighbors  on  Spring  Hill  Street,  and 
La  Signorina  had  told  him  about  Barone's  hopeless 
quest.  He  thought  very  little  about  the  matter, 
however,  as  he  was  absorbed  in  his  own  affairs. 
How  Celestia  was  bearing  her  separation  from  her 
lover  had  not  concerned  him  until  one  Saturday 
morning  when  La  Signorina  entered  the  office  with 
the  greeting,  — 

"  Take  care  you  not  fall  in  love." 

"Why?" 

"  Oh,  so  much  of  trouble  it  will  make  for  you. 
If  the  young  lady  loves  you,  good ;  but  see  what 
time  you  will  be  writing  letters  and  making  calls, 
and  thinking  of  her.  And  if  she  not  love  you  — 
ah,  povero  dottore  1  You  would  not  sleep,  not 
eat,  not  care  if  live  or  die !  " 

Burroughs  laughed,  and  inquired  if  she  supposed 
that  he  would  be  as  sentimental  as  that. 


A  HEART  SPECIALIST  115 

"  I  not  know  what  you  mean,  *  sent'mental,'  but 
I  do  see  so  many  poor  girls  and  boys  that  so  much 
do  love,  and  poverini,  poverini !  See  now  Celes- 
tia.  All  the  time  she  do  lie  in  bed,  all  the  time 
cry ;  not  like  to  eat,  not  sing,  not  care  to  talk  "  — 

"  Well,  well,  she  must  be  pretty  far  gone." 

La  Signorina  paid  no  attention  to  the  interrup- 
tion, but  went  on  to  explain  that  the  old  father  had 
sent  for  Doctor  Burroughs  to  come  and  prescribe 
for  his  daughter.  The  nurse  had  agreed  that  it 
would  be  well  to  call  a  physician,  although  she 
believed  that  love  for  Barone  was  the  only  thing 
which  weighed  upon  the  girl's  spirits. 

"  So  go,  now,  dottore.  You  have  med'cine  for 
the  heart  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,  I  have  not,"  said  Burroughs,  emphatically. 
"  What  could  I  do  for  a  lovesick  girl? " 

"  Oh,  you  will  give  something  to  make  sleep,  and 
then  you  will  say  to  the  father,  '  Your  daughter 
will  die,  if  she  not  marry  Barone.' ' 

"  Girls  don't  die  from  love  affairs,"  said  Bur- 
roughs. 

"  Not  Americans,  no ;  but  Italian  girls,  yes. 
If  you  can  fright'n  the  old  father  he  will  be 
good,  and  let  marry  his  daughter  the  good  Barone. 
Such  nice  boy  is  Barone,  and  he  is  very  cross  man, 
the  old  father." 


116  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  Well,  I  won't  go,"  replied  Burroughs,  putting 
on  his  topcoat.  "I  have  enough  to  do  without 
making  matches." 

" '  Make  match,' "  pondered  the  nurse,  after 
Burroughs  had  gone  out.  "  I  not  want  him  to 
make  match  .  .  .  how  he  can  make  match  ?  "  She 
looked  earnestly  at  two  burnt  matches  in  the  coal- 
hod,  behind  the  stove.  "I  not  understand  Eng- 
lish. It  is  queer  language." 

Saturday  is  ashman's  day  on  Spring  Hill,  and  a 
long  line  of  barrels  decorated  the  curbings.  As 
Burroughs  went  out  he  heard  Miss  Cutter's 
strident  tones,  and  saw  her  in  her  doorway  with 
upraised  fist.  An  ashman  stood  beside  his  cart, 
grinning. 

"  You  're  a  pretty  feller !  "  the  old  woman  cried. 
"  You  're  not  much  like  that  ashman  what  died. 
He  was  always  ready  ter  do  a  favor.  'N'  where  's 
he  now?  He 's  a-walkin'  the  golden  streets  er 
Paradise,  and  a-feelin'  ser  kinder  nice  thinkin'  how 
he  was  good  ter  a  poor  old  woman  like  me.  Lucky 
't  ain't  you  that 's  dead !  Yer  'd  be  a-hollerin'  f er  a 
drop  er  water  ter  cool  th'  end  of  yer  tongue." 

The  ashman  grinned  more  expansively,  and 
winked  at  his  companion  on  the  wagon. 

"  I  ain't  no  cooper,"  he  said.  "  It  ain't  my 
business  ter  mend  ash  barrels." 


A  HEART  SPECIALIST  117 

"  No  more  't  warn't  his,"  piped  Miss  Cutter. 
"  But  he  was  a  Christian,  'n'  if  a  hoop  sprung  on 
my  barr'l,  he  'd  take  my  hammer  'n'  fix  it  up. 
How  d'  ye  do,  Doctor  Burroughs,"  she  added,  in  a 
softer  tone,  and  with  an  elaborate  bow.  "  I  'm 
in  trouble  as  usu'l,  all  on  account  o'  this  pesky 
ashman." 

"Oh,  don't  be  hard  on  the  ashman,  Miss 
Cutter,"  said  the  interne ;  "  he 's  a  busy  man. 
I  '11  mend  your  barrel  for  you  after  luncheon." 

"  Yer  will,  will  yer  ?  "  piped  Miss  Cutter.  "  No, 
yer  won't,  neither.  D'  yer  think  I  'd  let  a  nice, 
clean  little  man  like  you  touch  my  ash  barr'l? 
No,  I  thank  yer  ;  I  hope  I  hev  some  sense  er  com- 
passion left,  if  I  do  live  in  this  heathenish  place." 

"  All  right,  Miss  Cutter,"  laughed  the  student ; 
"  it 's  your  barrel ;  suit  yourself." 

"  Thank  yer,  dar-tory,"  said  the  old  dame,  bend- 
ing nearly  double  in  a  bow  of  mock  humility. 
"  Thank  yer,  kindly.  I  think  it  is,  'n'  I  think  I 
will." 

Burroughs  went  off  chuckling  to  himself.  Miss 
Cutter  was  a  never-failing  source  of  amusement  to 
him.  He  went  to  Pietro  Carmanti's  house  to  see 
Celestia,  as  La  Signorina  knew  he  would  in  spite 
of  his  seeming  indifference.  He  was  greeted  with 
great  ceremony  and  ushered  into  the  front  room, 


118  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

which  the  devoted  parents  had  fitted  up  for  their 
daughter's  sleeping  apartment.  Burroughs  was 
impressed  by  the  daintiness  of  the  room,  although 
he  could  not  have  described  afterwards  the  brass 
bedstead  with  its  valance  of  hand-made  lace,  the 
pretty  rug  upon  the  floor,  the  comfortable  chairs, 
and  the  prie-dieu  in  the  corner,  with  its  crucifix, 
rosary,  and  tiny  red  lamp  burning  before  the  pic- 
ture of  Our  Lady  of  Perpetual  Help. 

Celestia  had  risen  that  morning  in  anticipation 
of  the  doctor's  call,  and  she  reclined  gracefully  in 
a  Morris  chair,  the  dark  green  cushions  displaying 
her  negligee  gown  of  pale  pink  silk  to  great 
advantage.  As  Burroughs  entered,  she  began  to 
moan  and  wring  her  hands. 

"  All-a  time-a  so,"  her  mother  said,  anxiously ; 
while  Pietro  exclaimed,  "  Make-a  well-a  the  girl,  I 
geev-a  dottore  much-a  mon'.  Pietro  rich-a ;  much 
rich-a." 

Celestia  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Good-morning,"  she  said,  in  a  weak,  patient 
voice. 

"  Good-morning,"  replied  Burroughs,  primly. 

He  approached  and  gingerly  put  his  fingers  on 
her  wrist. 

"  Are  you  in  pain  ?  "  he  asked  after  a  moment's 
consideration  of  her  perfectly  normal  pulse. 


A  HEART  SPECIALIST  119 

"  N-no,  not  much,  I  think,"  murmured  Celestia, 
"  but  I  feel  so  droopy  all  the  time  and  so  sad.  I 
am  sure  I  shall  die." 

Burroughs  knit  his  brows  and  looked  profound. 
The  parents  watched  him  eagerly,  sure  that  a  won- 
derful cure  was  about  to  be  performed. 

"Let  me  see  your  tongue,"  commanded  the 
student. 

Celestia  permitted  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  pro- 
trude, Burroughs  inspected  it  with  all  the  profes- 
sional dignity  he  could  command.  Then  he  sud- 
denly asked  the  disconcerting  question. 

"  Why  does  your  father  object  to  Somebody  ?  " 

Celestia  gave  a  little  gasp  and  drew  in  her 
tongue. 

"  Because  he  is  poor,"  she  answered,  not  looking 
up.  "  He  is  poor,  but  he  works  very  hard  and  is 
good  and  smart.  Some  day  I  know  he  will  make 
money.  I  love  him  and  I  will  not  give  him  up. 
Oh,  Doctor  Burroughs !  If  you  only  knew  what  I 
suffer !  I  can't  sleep  at  night  and  I  can't  eat.  I 
know  my  heart  will  break.  Do  help  me ;  please 
do!" 

She  seized  Burroughs's  hand  impulsively  and 
began  to  cry.  The  student  disengaged  himself  as 
quickly  as  possible.  He  was  a  little  shy  of  demon- 
strative women  patients. 


120  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  I  cannot  do  anything  to  help  you,"  he  said, 
quietly.  "  We  have  no  medicine  for  lovers.  You 
must  cure  yourself." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  get  well,"  wailed  Celestia. 
"  I  have  nothing  to  live  for.  I  can  never  be  happy 
again.  I  shall  go  down  on  the  pier  and  jump  off. 
I  know  I  shall." 

"  I  am  not  sure  but  what  that  would  be  a  good 
plan,"  replied  Burroughs,  meditatively ;  "  but," 
he  added  with  conviction,  "  I  can  tell  you,  Miss 
Carmanti,  the  corpses  they  take  out  of  that  harbor 
are  dreadful  looking  things." 

Celestia  sniffed  and  looked  sidelong  at  her  ad- 
viser. Somehow  her  plan  for  figuring  as  a  lovely 
suicide  lost  its  charm  at  his  words. 

"  But  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  she  moaned. 

"  Go  to  work  with  your  music  and  stop  fussing 
with  your  father." 

"  I  can't  sing.  You  're  very  heartless,  doc- 
tor." 

"  You  must  sing,"  replied  Burroughs,  with  a 
coldness  which  set  Celestia  sobbing  once  more. 
"  And  more  than  that,  you  are  not  going  to  die. 
You  would  n't  jump  off  that  pier  for  anything. 
You  are  not  doing  the  right  thing  by  Somebody 
when  he  is  working  so  hard  to  be  the  fine  gentle- 
man your  father  expects  you  to  marry.  It  would 


A  HEART  SPECIALIST  121 

serve  you  right  if  he  gave  you  up.  He  has  no 
wish  for  a  pale-faced,  crying  wife,  I  am  sure." 

Celestia  was  by  this  time  a  convulsive  mass  of 
fluffy  pink,  her  sobs  growing  more  and  more 
audible.  The  mother  with  anxious  eye  bent  above 
her  caressingly  and  murmured,  "  Poverina,  JPover- 
ina  !  "  The  father  glowered  at  the  student  as  if 
not  knowing  whether  to  turn  him  out  or  let  him 
go  on  with  the  cure.  Burroughs,  as  remorseless  as 
the  Council  of  Ten,  continued  his  inquisition.  He 
knew  perfectly  well  the  best  mode  of  treatment  for 
his  patient. 

"  Now,  if  you  do  not  stop  this  crying,  I  shall 
have  to  tell  your  father  what  is  the  matter  with 
you." 

"  How  can  you  be  so  heartless,"  came  from  the 
depths  of  the  cushions.  "  I  don't  believe  you  were 
ever  in  love  or  you  would  know  how  I  suffer." 

A  flush  crept  across  Burroughs's  face  and  the 
lines  around  his  mouth  hardened.  He  did  not 
speak  for  a  time  and  then  he  said  more  kindly,  — 

"  Miss  Carmanti,  Some  one  hears  from  you  every 
week  through  the  nurse.  Do  you  suppose  he  en- 
joys thinking  that  while  he  is  working  hard  for 
your  sake,  you  are  moping  around  the  house,  losing 
the  power  of  that  beautiful  voice  he  is  so  proud 
of?  He  doesn't  like  it,  you  may  be  sure.  No 


122  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

man  would.  Now  try  to  be  brave.  I'll  leave 
something  to  quiet  your  nerves.  Rest  to-day  and 
to-morrow  and  keep  thinking  of  pleasant  things. 
Monday,  dress  up  in  your  best  clothes  and  go  up 
town  for  a  lesson,  if  you  can  arrange  for  it." 

Celestia  came  out  of  the  cushions. 

"  I  '11  try,"  she  said.  "  I  had  never  thought  it 
might  make  a  difference  to  him.  Do  you  suppose 
I  shall  get  well?" 

"  You  certainly  will.  I  have  great  confidence  in 
you  and  I  know  that  you  will  be  a  brave  girl." 
Then  he  added,  with  a  gallantry  worthy  of  Ray- 
mond himself,  "  You  must  not  spoil  those  eyes  and 
that  face  by  crying  and  under-eating." 

The  last  shot  told.  Celestia  sat  up,  tossed  back 
her  hair,  and  wiped  her  eyes. 

"  I  '11  try,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  that  would 
have  thrown  Barone  into  a  rapture,  but  which  was 
quite  lost  on  the  unsusceptible  Burroughs,  who 
forthwith  opened  the  ever-present  satchel  and 
counted  some  pellets  into  a  bottle. 

"  One  of  these  each  hour,"  he  said.  "  They  are 
easy  to  take.  Follow  my  advice  and  I  'm  sure  you 
will  be  better  at  once." 

He  shook  hands  with  her  and  followed  her  par- 
ents out  of  the  room.  Pietro  was  delighted  with 
the  sudden  improvement  of  his  darling.  He  in- 


A  HEART  SPECIALIST  123 

sisted  upon  offering  money  for  the  cure,  and  it  was 
only  with  difficulty  that  Burroughs  made  him 
understand  that  the  services  at  St.  Luke's  were 
free  beyond  the  stipulated  ten  cents.  Then  the 
mother  flew  to  the  pantry  and  brought  out  a  jar  of 
preserved  peppers,  and  the  father  rushed  down 
cellar,  returning  with  two  bottles  of  home-made 
wine,  which  he  forced  into  the  student's  hands. 
Burroughs  departed  well  laden,  after  assuring  the 
parents  that  Celestia  would  be  quite  well  in  a  day 
or  two,  and  he  carried  the  spoils  of  office  back  to 
his  room.  There  was  an  odd  smile  on  his  face  as 
he  went,  and  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  slipped  the 
bottles  into  the  pockets  of  his  top  coat,  — 

"  *  P.    M.     Burroughs,     Heart     Specialist.'  — 
Would  n't  Raymond  shout !  " 


CHAPTER  XI 
DR.  RAYMOND'S  MISTAKE 

TIME  went  on  and  still  Raymond  had  not 
plucked  up  sufficient  courage  to  ask  Margaret 
Worthington  to  be  his  wife.  That  she  would  re- 
fuse his  offer  did  not  really  occur  to  him.  He  did 
not  know  what  failure  meant,  for  his  sunny  nature 
had  met  with  few  disappointments  and  no  vicissi- 
tudes. He  had  always  been  good,  had  always 
loved  everybody,  and  everybody  had  always  loved 
him.  He  was  very  kind-hearted,  and  the  continued 
petting  of  mother,  grandmothers,  and  aunts  had 
left  him  unselfish  to  a  surprising  degree.  He  was 
wealthy  ;  he  was  handsome  ;  he  was  clean-minded, 
clear-headed,  honest.  That  everything  had  gone 
his  way  was  not  to  be  wondered  at.  Yet  he 
dreaded  to  commit  himself  to  a  promise  of  life-long 
importance,  not  fearing  that  he  would  weary  of 
Margaret,  but  because  he  knew  how  well  he  en- 
joyed his  independence. 

Sometimes  as  he  drove  through  the  quiet  up- 
town streets  on  his  round  of  professional  visits,  he 


DR.  RAYMOND'S  MISTAKE  125 

felt  very  sure  of  himself,  and  inwardly  vowed  that 
he  would  settle  the  matter  that  very  evening.  But 
by  the  time  that  dinner  was  over,  he  would  dis- 
cover that  he  had  changed  his  mind  and  was  less 
confident.  Upon  such  occasions  he  would  shut 
himself  up  in  his  office  with  his  guitar  and  sing 
"  Faint  Heart  ne'er  won  Fair  Lady "  and  other 
salutary  ballads  until  it  was  too  late  to  make  calls. 
Then  he  would  emerge  for  a  glance  at  the  evening 
paper  or  a  game  of  cribbage  with  his  mother.  He 
usually  consulted  his  mother  about  his  various 
plans,  for  the  two  enjoyed  a  most  delightful  com- 
radeship, but  the  fear  that  she  would  dread  the 
prospect  of  sharing  her  son  with  another  deterred 
him  from  telling  her  of  his  attachment  to  Mar- 
garet. It  was  only  when  Burroughs  asked  him 
why  he  was  content  to  postpone  so  much  probable 
happiness  that  he  finally  brought  himself  to  the 
point  of  a  proposal.  Burroughs' s  way  of  putting 
it  was  both  forceful  and  sensible.  Raymond  won- 
dered why  he  himself  had  not  realized  that  he  was 
wasting  time.  So  one  evening  he  went  to  Mar- 
garet's. 

She  greeted  him  cordially  and  was  evidently  glad 
to  see  him.  He  was  enraptured,  wondering  within 
himself  why  he  had  delayed  so  long.  She  wore  a 
pretty  blue  bodice  and  had  a  ribbon  of  the  same 


126  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

tint  in  her  hair.  Raymond  was  glad  the  color  was 
so  becoming  to  her,  for  it  was  his  favorite.  As  they 
talked  together  he  thought  that  her  kind  eyes  had 
never  looked  so  serenely  beautiful ;  that  her  lips 
were  very  red ;  that  her  cheek  looked  as  soft  as 
velvet.  He  was  glad  he  had  made  up  his  mind  at 
last ;  and  what  a  lucky  fellow  he  was,  to  be  sure ! 

When  Raymond  was  announced  and  Margaret 
left  her  father  and  mother  in  the  library,  Mr. 
Worthington  looked  up  from  his  reading  and 
asked,  — 

"Who  is  it?" 

"  Doctor  Raymond,"  answered  his  wife,  glancing 
at  the  card  the  maid  had  brought  in. 

Mr.  Worthington  laid  down  his  book. 

"  Now  there  is  a  man  !  "  he  said.  "  I  should  be 
proud  "  — 

"  So  should  I." 

"  When  his  father  died  the  property  was  esti- 
mated at  nearly  a  million  and  it  has  not  depreciated 
in  value,"  said  the  father. 

"  And  he  is  his  mother's  only  heir,"  went  on 
Mrs.  Worthington.  "  She  was  a  Levering,  you 
remember,  and  inherited  a  third  of  the  old  estate. 
But  we  must  not  talk  like  match-makers." 

"  That  is  true.  It  is  bad  enough  to  be  match- 
breakers." 


DR.  RAYMOND'S  MISTAKE  127 

"You  are  not  sorry  you  broke  up  that  affair 
with  young  Burroughs  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I  only  hope  that  Margaret 
will  be  given  an  opportunity  to  console  herself  with 
the  doctor.  I  don't  like  that  hungry  look  in  her 
eyes." 

"  You  imagine  that.  She  was  never  in  better 
spirits  in  her  life." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  She  pleaded  so 
earnestly  for  her  impecunious  lover  that  I  have 
been  afraid  that  she  was  eating  her  heart  out  over 
the  loss  of  him." 

"  She  is  too  sensible  a  girl  for  that.  She  knows 
that  we  have  planned  to  have  her  occupy  a  promi- 
nent position  in  society.  She  will  submit  to  our 
wish,  I  know,  and  will  fill  her  place  with  credit." 

"  She  would  not  be  her  mother's  daughter  if  she 
did  not,"  replied  Mr.  Worthington,  gallantly. 

If  Eaymond  had  known  what  was  being  said  in 
the  library,  the  eyes  of  his  mental  vision  would 
have  opened  very  wide.  That  he  had  a  distinct 
money  value  was  the  least  of  his  considerations. 
He  accepted  his  money  as  a  necessary  adjunct  of 
life,  not  as  a  thing  to  be  pijoud  of,  and  certainly 
not  as  something  which  made  him  a  more  eligible 
parti.  Finances  were  very  far  from  his  thought 
at  the  moment.  He  had  asked  Margaret  to  play 


128  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

for  him  and  she  seated  herself  at  the  piano,  bidding 
him  choose  the  selections  which  he  wished  to  hear. 

He  rummaged  through  the  music  cabinet  pick- 
ing out  his  favorites,  choosing  those  which  were 
filled  with  a  subtile  quality  that  Raymond's  music- 
loving  heart  told  him  might  prepare  them  both  for 
the  all-important  moment. 

"  You  must  sing  for  me,"  she  said,  at  length. 
"  It  is  not  fair  that  I  should  do  all  the  work." 

She  rose  and  Raymond  seated  himself  at  the 
piano. 

"  What  shall  I  sing  for  you  ?  "  he  asked,  dream- 

ay. 

"  You  may  choose  for  yourself,"  she  replied.  "  I 
shall  be  perfectly  satisfied  with  your  selection." 

He  sang  a  bit  by  Nevin,  then  one  of  Clayton 
Johns's  dainty  ballads.  Then  he  sang  the  song 
which  he  had  often  sung  to  himself  as  he  looked  at 
her  photograph. 

"  There  is  no  pain  too  heavy  for  the  bearing, 
I  dread  not  loss  nor  sorrow's  thorny  smart ; 
There  is  no  hurt  I  'd  ask  thee  to  be  sparing  — 

Crush  me ! 
If  thou  wilt  deign  to  crush  me  on  thy  heart !  " 

The  opening  notes  moved  like  a  chorale,  a  prayer 
of  consecration  set  to  music.  Then  a  strenuousness 
carried  the  theme  to  its  climax  and  the  ending  was 


DR.  RAYMOND'S  MISTAKE  129 

a  paean  of  triumph.  When  the  brief  song  was  done 
Raymond  turned  to  Margaret.  There  were  tears 
in  her  eyes.  She  had  forgotten  his  presence  and 
was  thinking  only  of  that  last,  sweet  hour  with 
Philip  Burroughs  and  of  his  close  embrace. 

"  Margaret,  my  darling,"  Raymond  said,  "  I  was 
singing  to  you."  .  .  . 

A  few  moments  later  he  passed  out  of  her  pre- 
sence and  the  servant  opened  the  street  door  for 
him.  His  mind  was  in  a  chaos.  —  Margaret  had 
rejected  him.  She  loved  some  one  else.  He  had 
not  thought  of  that  possibility  and  his  surprise  was 
complete.  He  felt  deeply  disappointed  and  a 
little  hurt.  He  had  thought  Margaret  was  very 
fond  of  him.  He  made  his  way  sorrowfully  to 
York  Chambers,  where  his  mother  sat  in  the  library 
awaiting  his  return.  She  had  a  cup  of  hot  choco- 
late for  him,  but  somehow  he  did  not  care  to  drink 
it.  He  felt  very  forlorn.  When  he  rose  to  go  to 
his  room  he  paused  in  the  doorway  and  said  with 
almost  childish  wistf ulness,  — 

"  I  'm  very  tired  to-night,  Mother.  Don't  you 
want  to  pretend  that  I  am  a  boy  again  and  come 
by  and  by  to  tuck  me  in  and  kiss  me  good-night  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XH 
BONDAGE 

THERE  came  a  day  near  the  middle  of  February 
which,  in  after  times,  Burroughs  could  not  recall 
without  a  feeling  of  horror.  He  was  busy  with  his 
mid-year  examinations  and  studied  every  night  until 
one  or  two  o'clock,  taking  tests  on  alternate  days. 
He  had  no  hope  of  ranking  high  in  his  class.  He 
could  not  do  so,  while  devoting  so  much  time  to  out- 
side work.  But  the  practical  knowledge  gained 
from  service  at  St.  Luke's  stood  him  in  good  stead 
in  the  more  theoretical  work  of  the  medical  school. 

Upon  this  tragic  day  Capotosti's  Gracia  was  sit- 
ting on  the  curbstone  in  the  street  where  she  lived 
and  striking  two  broken  saucepans  together.  The 
Amadeo  of  Tony  Reggerio  heard  the  noise  and 
leaned  out  of  a  third  story  window  to  see  what 
was  going  on.  He  was  all  alone  in  the  tenement, 
as  his  mother  had  gone  to  bring  some  firewood 
from  the  avenue,  where  a  building  was  being  torn 
down.  Amadeo  could  not  see  the  sidewalk  easily, 
for  he  was  not  very  tall ;  so  he  climbed  up  on  the 


BONDAGE  131 

window  sill.  The  wife  of  Capotosti,  whose  tenement 
was  on  the  ground  floor,  heard  an  unusual  sound, 
a  sort  of  dull  thud.  What  she  found  on  the  side- 
walk she  lifted  with  tearful  tenderness  and  carried 
to  St.  Luke's. 

There  was  no  examination  at  school  that  day 
and  Burroughs  had  not  yet  left  the  office.  He 
worked  all  day  over  the  unconscious  child,  summon- 
ing to  his  assistance  the  physician  under  whose 
supervision  he  was  practicing.  About  an  hour 
after  dark  little  Amadeo  died  in  his  mother's  arms 
and  Capotosti's  wife  carried  the  body  home. 

Burroughs  went  out  for  his  supper,  but  was  too 
tired  to  eat  heartily.  He  soon  returned  to  the 
office  and  took  up  his  books.  The  hardest  exam- 
ination of  the  series  was  before  him  on  the  following 
day,  but  he  had  scarcely  settled  himself  for  an 
evening  of  work  when  La  Signorina  unlocked  the 
street  door  and  entered  the  office  carrying  the  child 
of  the  woman  with  whom  she  lodged.  The  little 
one  was  unconscious  and  a  single  glance  showed 
the  cause.  A  deep  gash  ran  across  the  palm  of 
her  left  hand  and  the  fingers  hung  loose  and  lifeless, 
the  white  tendons  gleaming  against  the  red  wound. 
She  had  fallen  and  cut  herself  with  a  broken  tum- 
bler. They  laid  her  upon  the  operating  table. 
Burroughs' s  hands  trembled  as  he  selected  the 


132  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

instruments  for  La  Signorina  to  sterilize,  but  when 
he  began  his  work,  his  grasp  was  firm  and  his 
touch  steady.  The  tendons  had  contracted.  It 
was  a  delicate  task  to  make  the  necessary  incisions 
and  draw  them  down.  La  Signorina,  always  equal 
to  an  emergency,  worked  tirelessly,  comforting  the 
mother,  whose  face  was  dripping  with  the  perspi- 
ration of  anxiety,  and  speaking  reassuringly  to  the 
older  sister  of  the  child,  who  crouched  in  the  back- 
ground, sobbing.  After  three  hours'  work  the  ten- 
dons were  united,  the  arm  was  dressed,  and  the 
child  was  taken  home  to  be  cared  for  during  the 
night  by  the  faithful  nurse. 

The  air  in  the  office  was  heavy  with  the  com- 
bined odors  of  kerosene  and  iodof  orm.  Burroughs 
opened  the  window  and  paced  up  and  down  the 
room  to  keep  from  being  chilled.  It  had  begun  to 
snow  in  the  early  afternoon  and  the  wind  had  risen 
steadily  until  now  strong  gusts  from  the  sea  drove 
the  sleety  snow  in  at  the  window.  As  Burroughs 
paused  in  front  of  the  casement  he  could  hear  what 
he  had  never  heard  before  on  Spring  Hill  Street ; 
the  sound  of  waves  breaking  on  the  beach  beyond 
the  park.  It  must  be  a  terrible  storm  at  sea  to 
thus  affect  the  waters  of  the  harbor.  He  thought 
with  a  shudder  of  the  wrecks  that  would  strew  the 
coast  next  day  and  of  the  fate  of  many  a  sailor. 


BONDAGE  133 

When  he  was  settled  at  his  desk  once  more  he 
found  it  almost  impossible  to  apply  himself  to  his 
books.  The  day  had  been  one  long  nerve  strain, 
and  the  mournful  howl  of  the  gale  and  the  rattling 
of  the  shutters  added  to  his  feeling  of  nervous 
apprehension.  Suddenly  the  street  bell  tinkled. 
Burroughs  sprang  up  and  went  to  the  door,  carry- 
ing his  lamp.  A  blast  of  wind  nearly  extinguished 
the  light  as  he  opened  the  door,  but  he  could  see 
the  white  face  of  Maxon,  who  leaned  against  the 
frame,  breathing  heavily. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  moaned,  as  Burroughs  dragged 
him  in  and  closed  the  door.  "  I  tried  to  do  with- 
out it.  Won't  you  help  me  ?  I  did  it  for  you." 

He  staggered  into  the  office  and  sank  upon  a 
chair,  exhausted  with  his  battle  with  the  storm  and 
the  violent  struggle  for  breath. 

"  You  've  stopped  taking  it  for  my  sake  ?  "  said 
Burroughs,  incredulously.  "  How  am  I  to  know 
that  you  are  not  fooling  me  as  you  did  that  worker 
at  the  mission  ?  " 

Maxon  turned  his  bloodshot  eyes  towards  Bur- 
roughs with  an  expression  of  misery,  which  haunted 
the  student  for  many  days. 

"  See !  "  he  said,  putting  a  shaking  hand  into  the 
recesses  of  his  old  coat  and  producing  some  money ; 
"  I  've  spent  nothing  for  morphine  for  three  days." 


134  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

Burroughs  went  out  to  the  store  closet  and 
brought  some  beef  extract  in  a  cup.  He  added 
hot  water  from  the  tea  kettle  on  the  top  of  the 
stove,  and  held  the  cup  to  Maxon's  lips. 

"  Drink  this,"  he  said,  kindly. 

Maxon  drank  as  well  as  he  could  between  his 
gasps,  choking  a  little,  but  not  relinquishing  the 
cup  until  it  was  empty.  Burroughs  drew  the 
rocking-chair  near  the  stove,  and  motioned  him  to 
sit  therein.  Then  he  stooped  down  and  removed 
the  wet,  ragged  shoes.  Maxon  wore  no  stockings, 
and  his  feet  were  red  and  chilblained.  He  held 
them  away  from  the  fire  while  Burroughs  produced 
a  pair  of  his  own  socks  and  put  them  on  his 
patient. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  Maxon  gasped.  "  I  am 
ashamed  to  trouble  you  again  when  you  told  me 
not  to  come  here.  I  stayed  at  the  lodging  house 
till  I  knew  I  could  not  resist  any  longer.  You 
will  stand  by  me,  won't  you?  Don't  send  me 
away.  Don't!  Don't!" 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  send  you  away,"  exclaimed 
Burroughs,  with  a  sudden  rush  of  feeling.  "  We 
will  fight  this  out  together." 

The  student  knew  that  if  Maxon  could  hold  out 
until  the  crisis  of  his  attack  was  past,  his  sufferings 
would  decrease,  and  subsequent  spasms  would  be 


BONDAGE  135 

less  and  less  violent.  When  the  worst  of  the 
Struggle  was  over,  it  would  be  well  to  give  a  small 
quantity  of  morphine,  that  he  might  regain  his 
strength  in  sleep.  Burroughs  watched  his  patient 
carefully  as  the  long  hours  wore  away.  They  were 
the  most  lonely  hours  Burroughs  had  ever  spent, 
for  to  his  overwrought  nerves  the  companionship 
of  this  victim  of  opium  made  a  loneliness  more 
terrible  than  solitude.  Sometimes  Maxon  seized 
Burroughs's  hands  and  well-nigh  crushed  them  in 
his  frenzy.  Sometimes  the  student  put  his  arms 
around  the  exhausted  man  and  held  him  by  main 
force  to  keep  him  from  falling  on  the  floor  when 
the  paroxysms  grew  more  violent  and  his  weakness 
caused  his  body  to  bend  almost  double.  Some- 
times the  sufferer  cried  out  for  death.  Sometimes 
he  demanded  relief  through  the  hypodermic  nee- 
dle ;  sometimes  he  threatened  to  kill  Burroughs ; 
sometimes  he  cursed ;  sometimes  he  prayed.  Some- 
times within  the  office  all  was  still  save  for  the 
gasp,  gasp,  gasp,  of  the  enslaved  man.  And 
through  it  all,  with  every  sweep  of  the  gale,  Bur- 
roughs's ear,  quickened  by  excitement,  caught  the 
hollow  note  of  the  waves  as  they  broke  in  the 
darkness  upon  the  deserted  beach. 

When  the  wan  daylight  crept  in  through  the 
shutters,  the  storm  had  ceased,  and  Maxon  lay 


136  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

asleep  on  Burroughs's  couch.  The  exhausted  stu- 
dent stood  and  looked  down  with  a  thrill  of  com- 
passion upon  this  wreck  who  had  turned  to  him  in 
the  time  of  moral  and  physical  weakness.  There 
was  a  mystery  about  this  man.  Brady  had  hinted 
at  it;  Maxon  himself,  with  his  ruined  will,  had 
hinted  at  it.  What  the  secret  was,  Burroughs 
thought  he  should  never  know,  but  this  craven 
creature's  affection  for  him  had  made  a  great 
impression.  This  cry  for  help  from  the  hell  of  a 
relentless  habit  had  touched  a  deep  and  vibrant 
chord  in  his  nature. 

"  Poor  soul !  "  he  murmured.  "  I  will  stand  by 
you.  We  will  fight  it  out  together." 

He  left  a  message  for  the  nurse  concerning  his 
patient,  and  went  uptown  for  his  breakfast  and 
the  examination  which  awaited  him.  He  had  no 
subsequent  remembrance  of  his  work,  but  it  must 
have  been  creditable,  for  he  afterward  found  his 
name  on  the  list  of  those  who  had  passed  the  test 
successfully.  When  he  reached  St.  Luke's  that 
afternoon  he  went  directly  to  the  back  room.  The 
cot  bed  was  empty.  The  socks  which  he  had  put 
on  Maxon's  feet  lay  on  the  coverlet,  neatly  folded. 
La  Signorina  told  Burroughs  that  Maxon  had 
slept  all  the  morning,  waking  once  and  drinking 
the  broth  she  had  made  for  him.  A  little  while 


BONDAGE  137 

before  Burroughs  came  in  she  had  gone  out  on  an 
errand.  On  her  return  she  found  that  Maxon  had 
disappeared.  On  the  desk  in  the  office  Burroughs 
found  a  note  addressed  to  him. 

"  It  is  of  no  use,"  —  the  letter  read,  —  "  the 
habit  is  too  strong.  You  have  been  more  kind  to 
me  than  any  one  else  in  the  world  would  have 
been,  and  I  thank  you  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart.  I  wanted  to  do  something  for  you,  but  I 
have  only  been  a  burden.  I  will  never  trouble  you 
again.  I  shall  not  come  back  unless  by  some 
heavenly  providence  I  may  repay  you  for  your 
goodness.  I  leave  you  a  book  of  which  I  am  very 
fond.  Pray  keep  it  as  a  remembrance  of  me.  It 
is  all  that  I  can  give  you.  My  kind  and  faithful 
friend,  good-by." 

On  the  desk  lay  a  small  volume  with  calf-skin 
binding  scratched  and  broken.  Burroughs  took  it 
up  and  turned  its  worn,  soiled  pages  sorrowfully. 
It  was  the  precious  copy  of  "  Childe  Harold." 


CHAPTEE  XIII 
SCARABINTS  DEFEAT 

IN  the  vacation  that  followed  the  mid-year  exam- 
inations Burroughs  tried  to  rest,  and  prepare  for 
the  work  of  the  next  semester.  He  thought  many 
times  of  Maxon,  but  the  mystery  which  surrounded 
the  strange  man  remained  unsolved,  and  he  never 
came  to  St.  Luke's  again.  His  disappearance  had 
almost  a  tragic  aspect,  for  he  was  lost  as  completely 
as  if  the  earth  had  opened  and  swallowed  him  up, 
and  what  his  pitiful  history  was,  Burroughs  would 
never  know  in  full.  La  Signorina  believed  that 
there  was  some  interesting  love  affair  in  the  man's 
lost  past ;  but  La  Signorina  was  romantic,  and 
Burroughs  laughed  at  her  for  her  notion.  Miss 
Cutter  congratulated  him  from  having  escaped 
alive  from  his  association  with  so  strange  a  speci- 
men of  humanity,  but  Burroughs,  remembering 
that  night  of  struggle,  could  think  of  Maxon  only 
with  feelings  of  particular  tenderness.  If  Miss 
Cutter  had  been  afraid  of  Scarabini  her  fears 
would  have  been  better  grounded. 


SCARABINI'S  DEFEAT  139 

The  Spanish  doctor's  office  was  on  the  avenue, 
and  therefore  convenient  to  both  the  Italian  and 
the  Jewish  quarters.  He  found  that  his  practice 
among  the  poor  Italians  was  steadily  falling  off, 
and  one  day,  as  he  and  his  interpreter  threaded  a 
narrow  street,  he  heard  well-defined  hisses  as  he 
passed  a  group  of  women.  A  little  later  an  old  wo- 
man, shuffling  along  the  narrow  sidewalk,  pushed 
him  off  into  the  gutter,  muttering  "  Accidente 
voi  / "  as  she  scowled  her  evident  disapproval  of 
him.  He  made  no  comment  upon  these  pheno- 
mena, but  maintained  a  crafty  silence.  He  had  his 
theories  about  the  cause  of  this  disaffection.  He 
did  not  believe  that  Burroughs  or  any  other  Amer- 
ican was  clever  enough  to  outdo  him.  Any  one 
who  spoke  English  he  did  not  fear.  It  was  only 
when  an  unknown  tongue  became  the  medium  of 
intercourse  that  he  felt  himself  in  the  quicksand. 
His  suspicions  of  Scarabini  had  been  increasing 
for  some  time.  The  Italian  was  moody,  oftentimes 
morose,  and  not  infrequently  he  treated  the  doctor 
with  a  rudeness  which  showed  unmistakably  that 
he  despised  his  employer.  When  the  two  returned 
to  the  office  that  morning  the  Spanish  doctor  began 
to  observe  Scarabini  closely.  Had  the  young  man 
realized  it  he  would  have  been  startled,  for  that 
careful  watching  was  a  signal  of  coming  trouble. 


140  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  Sgarabini,"  said  the  doctor  at  length,  in  his 
smooth,  conciliatory  voice,  "  we  haf  put  poor  piz- 
ness  mit  der  Dagoes.  Vhy  ?  " 

"  How  do  I  know  ? "  returned  the  Italian, 
sulkily. 

"  I  nod  care  ter  make  much  talk  mit  you,  Sgara- 
bini, bud  if  there  be  not  many  Italians  at  der 
glinic  to-morrer,  you  vill  lose  your  job.  I  can  vind 
many  fellers  bedder  than  you." 

Scarabini  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Do  as  you  like,"  he  replied.  "  It  is  not  my 
fault  that  your  clinics  fall  off.  It  is  that  cursed 
American  who  does  it." 

The  doctor  began  to  chuckle  in  his  crafty  way. 
In  spite  of  his  bravado,  Scarabini  shivered  as  he 
heard  the  hollow,  heartless  laugh. 

"  Gome  here,  Sgarabini,"  exclaimed  the  doctor. 

Scarabini  left  the  medicine  bottles  he  was  filling 
from  a  two  gallon  crock  in  the  corner  of  the  office 
and  went  over  to  the  desk.  He  bent  his  hard, 
black  eyes  upon  the  doctor,  but  could  not  catch  the 
shifty  glance  of  the  older  man. 

"  Liz'en  to  me,  Sgarabini,"  said  the  "  Spaniard." 
"  You  vill  haf  much  drouble  finding  an  American 
vot  vill  do  me.  I  understand  them.  I  haf  no  fear 
of  that  keed.  Vot  he  can  do  ?  But  I  know  veil 
who  has  made  me  der  drouble.  Eet  is  you,  Sgara- 


SCARABINI'S  DEFEAT  141 

bini.  Now,  you  vill  pring  me  good  glinic  to-morrer 
—  er  out  you  goes." 

Scarabini  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  fine 
show  of  nonchalance.  At  heart  he  had  small  wish 
to  lose  his  position,  for  it  gave  him  peculiar  facili- 
ties for  promulgating  a  certain  work  among  the 
Italians  which  was  very  vital  to  him.  As  long  as 
he  was  connected  with  so  great  a  mystery  as  medi- 
cine, he  was  a  power  in  the  community.  To  be 
sure,  Burroughs  was  quietly  but  steadily  breaking 
down  that  influence,  but  there  were  means  —  if 
worst  came  to  worst  —  by  which  Burroughs  could 
be  effectually  silenced. 

There  was  a  large  chromo-lithograph  hanging  on 
the  office  wall  just  above  the  doctor's  desk.  It  was 
entitled  "  II  Buono  Samaritano,"  and  was  the  one 
concession  of  the  Semitic  mind  bent  upon  building 
up  a  Christian  clientele.  Scarabini's  gaze  rested 
half  unconsciously  on  this  picture.  The  unlucky 
traveler  was  represented  as  reclining  upon  the  arm 
of  the  good  Samaritan,  his  wounds  gaping  in  most 
frightful  fashion.  There  was  one  livid  gash  near 
the  heart. 

"  It  is  not  high  enough  up,"  mused  Scarabini ; 
"  and  it  is  better  to  strike  from  behind." 

Then  he  collected  his  thoughts  and  looked  at  the 
doctor. 


142  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  You  may  curse  me  for  a  dog  if  I  do  not  bring 
you  a  roomful  of  Dagoes  to-morrow,"  he  said,  with 
sudden  energy.  "  I  will  get  the  better  of  that 
American  if  "  —  he  stopped  and  looked  up  at  the 
wounds  in  the  picture. 

On  the  morning  following,  Burroughs  set  out  to 
make  a  round  of  visits.  The  long  storms  and  ex- 
treme cold  had  dealt  very  badly  with  the  poor 
people,  and  there  was  much  sickness  and  distress. 
As  he  passed  the  alley  where  Biaggio  Carbone 
lived,  he  saw  a  woman  coming  towards  him.  She 
was  bowed  as  if  by  age,  yet  she  was  not  old.  Her 
eyes  had  a  vacant  look  and  she  muttered  to  herself 
as  she  approached.  When  she  reached  Burroughs 
she  stepped  up  to  him,  threw  open  her  shawl,  and 
held  up  a  bundle  of  rags. 

"  Eosa  mia,  Eosa  mia  piccola !  "  she  murmured. 

Burroughs  recognized  her.  She  was  the  insane 
wife  of  Carbone. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  gently,  pulling  the  shawl 
about  her  shoulders,  for  the  wind  was  very  pier- 
cing. "Yes;  Eosa." 

She  looked  at  him  intently  for  a  moment,  the 
pupils  of  her  eyes  dilating.  Then  she  uttered  a 
wild  shriek  and  cast  herself  down  at  his  feet. 
Burroughs  raised  and  steadied  her  as  best  he  could. 
At  her  .cry,  windows  were  opened  and  heads  were 


SCAEABINI'S  DEFEAT  143 

thrust  out.  Two  or  three  women  rushed  out  of 
doors,  talking  excitedly.  The  big-eyed  boy,  Car- 
bone's  oldest  child,  ran  up  the  alley  and  took  hold 
of  his  mother,  trying  to  soothe  her  apparent  grief. 

"  She-a  know-a  youse,"  he  panted,  turning  to 
Burroughs.  "  She-a  not  know-a  an'body  till  youse. 
She-a  say-a  '  Dottore  !  Dottore  ! '  Youse  'ear-a 
'er-a?" 

Burroughs  heard  her  with  swelling  heart.  He 
picked  up  the  bundle  of  rags  which  the  mother  had 
dropped  and  placed  it  in  her  arms.  She  turned  a 
wistful,  half -intelligent  gaze  upon  him  and  put  out 
a  toil-scarred  hand  to  pat  his  shoulder,  murmuring 
again  and  again  with  touching  intonation,  — 

"  Rosa  mia,  Rosa  mia.  Dottore,  il  dottore ;  si, 
si." 

The  women  and  children  who  had  crowded 
around  them  talked  incessantly. 

"  Poor  theeng !  "  said  one,  "  she  know-a  'eem. 
'E  eez  good  dottore  ;  'e  teck-a  care  Rosa." 

"  See  !  "  said  another,  "  she  kiss-a  zee  hand-a." 

"  I  t'ink-a  veel  cry,  zee  dottore,"  said  a  third, 
"  see-a  zee  eye." 

At  that  moment  Scarabini  emerged  from  a 
neighboring  tenement  whither  he  had  gone  in  a 
vain  search  of  patients  for  his  employer.  He  stood 
on  the  upper  step  of  the  house  and  looked  down 


144  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

upon  Burroughs  and  the  crazed  mother  with  a 
sneer.  Burroughs  saw  him  and  the  cruel  look  in 
his  eyes.  The  student's  wrath  blazed  up. 

"  See !  "  he  cried  out  in  his  rage.  "  This  is  your 
work.  Are  n't  you  proud  of  it  ?  " 

The  moment  he  spoke  he  knew  that  he  had 
made  a  mistake,  but  his  sympathies  were  strongly 
stirred,  and  Scarabini's  appearance  was  intoler- 
able. 

"  Pah,  you  pig !  "  exclaimed  Scarabini,  with  an 
ill-mannered  gesture ;  "  what  do  I  care  for  you ! 
What  about  your  own  work  ?  How  well  you  fool 
the  people !  They  think  you  only  are  their  friend. 
It  is  easy  enough  to  fool  them.  Sit  up  a  few 
nights,  pat  this  child,  kiss  that  baby,  chuck  that 
pretty  girl  under  the  chin  and  the  mischief  is  done, 
curse  you !  " 

The  people  looked  at  Burroughs  to  see  what  he 
would  do,  but  he  had  reached  his  second  thought, 
and  did  not  reply.  Instead,  he  took  the  arm  of 
Carbone's  wife  as  the  boy  guided  her  down  the 
alley  to  her  tenement.  And  so  kind  was  his  man- 
ner that  when  Scarabini  cried,  "  See  the  coward ! 
He  dares  not  fight ! "  a  low  hiss  of  scorn  ran 
around  the  group  of  spectators,  and  one  woman, 
bolder  than  the  rest,  stepped  forward  and  shook 
her  fist  at  him,  exclaiming,  — 


SCARABINI'S  DEFEAT  145 

"  Ha !  Signore  Scarabini,  look  well  to  yourself. 
You  will  fool  us  no  more.  We  have  now  a  good 
friend." 

Burroughs  learned  from  Carbone's  boy  that  the 
mother  was  as  he  had  seen  her  at  first  —  that 
she  would  sit  all  day  playing  like  a  child  with  the 
bundle  of  rags  she  called  Rosa.  Sometimes,  he 
said,  she  would  wander  out  on  the  street,  but  they 
had  no  fear  for  her,  since  she  always  returned 
safely.  The  father  did  not  want  her  sent  away, 
and  as  she  was  harmless,  the  police  let  her  stay 
with  the  family,  and  a  woman  from  the  charities 
came  each  week  to  care  for  her.  The  boy  begged 
Burroughs  to  come  often,  as  he  was  the  first  per- 
son she  had  recognized  since  Rosa's  death.  This 
the  student  agreed  to  do,  and  left  the  poor  creature 
crooning  in  apparent  happiness  over  her  pitiful 
bundle  of  rags. 

Burroughs  did  not  see  Scarabini  for  several 
weeks,  but  from  time  to  time  he  was  warned  by 
the  Italians  to  beware  of  the  defeated  interpreter. 
At  all  these  warnings  Burroughs  only  laughed. 
He  did  not  believe  that  he  was  of  enough  impor- 
tance to  excite  continued  hostility.  He  did  not 
know  that  the  Spanish  doctor  had  dismissed  his 
interpreter,  and  had  taken  down  the  picture  of 
"  II  Buono  Sainaritano,"  since  his  business  among 


146  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

the  Italians  had  grown  so  small  that  he  no  longer 
catered  to  their  New  Testament  prejudices.  From 
that  time  on,  he  ceased  to  be  an  influence  in  the 
Spring  Hill  region,  and  Scarabini,  going  into  the 
crayon  portrait  business  with  but  small  success, 
became  a  fast-diminishing  speck  on  Burroughs's 
horizon. 


CHAPTEE  XIV 
THE  NURSE  OF  DOMINIQUE 

GAETANO  KIZZA  brought  his  little  Dominique  to 
St.  Luke's  one  day  in  March  when  a  noted  eye 
specialist  had  a  morning  clinic.  Burroughs  stayed 
away  from  school  that  day  to  attend  the  operations 
and  study  the  great  doctor's  methods.  When 
Dominique's  turn  came,  his  father  brought  him  into 
the  office  and  began  to  talk  at  once.  Rizza  was  a 
grande  signore  who  dressed  well,  wore  a  gold 
watch  and  chain,  and  had  a  good  business  on  the 
avenue. 

"  See  !  "  he  said,  "  I  am  not  poor  man.  I  pay 
you  well.  I  not  take  my  boy  to  'ospit'l,  for  there 
they  show  all  people  to  visitors.  I  not  like  all 
folks  look,  look  at  my  boy.  My  wife  dead,  but  in 
my  house  there  is  kind  woman  who  will  take  good 
care  my  boy  when  is  fixed  the  eye.  How  much  I 
will  pay  ?  " 

Burroughs  explained  that  the  fee  was  alike  for 
all  treatment  and  that  St.  Luke's  was  not  a  money- 
making  institution. 


148  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"Yes,  yes,"  replied  Rizza,  smiling,  "then  a 
present.  I  will  make  to  doctors  a  small  present ; 
yes." 

The  specialist  examined  Dominique's  eye. 

"  You  must  take  this  child  to  the  hospital,"  he 
said.  "  He  will  need  great  care  after  the  operation. 
I  cannot  trust  the  neighbor  woman.  But,"  he 
added  to  Burroughs,  "  it  will  be  a  fine  operation. 
You  must  tiy  to  see  it.  The  progress  of  recovery 
will  be  interesting,  too.  The  whole  thing  would 
be  invaluable  to  you." 

"  Do  it  here,"  said  Burroughs.  "  I  will  keep  the 
child.  He  can  sleep  in  my  bed  and  the  nurse  and 
I  will  manage  to  take  care  of  him  in  some  way." 

"  Very  well.  I  will  proceed,"  said  the  specialist, 
who  was  a  man  of  quick  thought  and  prompt 
action.  "  Get  your  ether." 

Rizza  kissed  his  child  and  they  laid  the  little 
fellow  on  the  operating  table.  The  father  sat 
down  by  the  window,  pulled  out  a  newspaper,  and 
pretended  to  read.  The  specialist  worked  quietly 
and  deftly.  Burroughs  did  not  lose  a  single  point. 
When  the  operation  was  finished,  they  carried  the 
child  into  the  back  room  and  put  him  to  bed. 
Burroughs  and  Rizza  stayed  until  he  came  out 
from  the  ether  and  then  they  left  him  in  charge  of 
La  Signorina.  It  was  expected  that  after  the 


THE  NURSE  OF  DOMINIQUE  149 

second  night  the  child  could  go  home  to  the  care  of 
the  neighbor.  La  Signorina  was  delighted  with 
the  arrangement.  She  prepared  broths  and  gruels 
on  top  of  the  office  stove,  and  turned  the  "back 
alley "  into  a  very  interesting  hospital  ward. 
Rizza  was  in  and  out  of  the  dispensary  all  the 
morning,  meeting  all  expenses  and  expressing 
great  satisfaction  with  his  boy's  condition. 

Early  on  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  a  young 
woman,  whose  face  and  gown  showed  she  was  not 
of  the  Spring  Hill  district,  came  up  the  street 
toward  St.  Luke's.  It  was  Margaret  Worthington, 
and  she  looked  with  dismayed  interest  at  the  dirty- 
faced  boys  playing  "  Peggy  "  in  the  street,  held 
her  skirts  up  carefully  to  avoid  the  dirt  and  turned 
her  face  with  real  embarrassment  from  the  frank 
looks  of  interest  bent  upon  her  by  the  women  in 
the  windows.  La  Signorina  opened  the  door  in 
answer  to  the  tinkle  of  the  bell. 

"  Is  this  the  nurse  ?  "  asked  the  visitor,  "  and  is 
Mr.  Burroughs  in  his  office  ?  " 

"  I  am  nurse,  but  Dr.  Burr's  is  not  yet  come 
from  school.  He  will  come  at  half-past  three. 
You  will  wait  for  him  ?  " 

"  I  will  come  in,"  said  Margaret ;  "  but  I  will 
not  wait  to  see  Mr.  Burroughs,  as  my  errand  is 
with  you." 


150  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

The  nurse  led  the  way  into  the  office  and  Mar- 
garet's quick  eye  took  in  the  details  of  the  room. 
She  saw  the  "  kid  with  a  dog,"  she  saw  the  mulatto 
doll,  she  even  noticed  the  lead  pencils  on  the  desk, 
sharpened  as  Burroughs  used  to  sharpen  hers  in 
the  high  school  with  long,  cleanly  shaven  points. 
The  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes  in  spite  of  her  deter- 
mination to  be  very  calm.  "  This  is  where  he 
lives  and  works,"  she  thought,  and  for  a  moment 
she  could  not  speak.  Then  she  said,  — 

"  I  have  heard  a  great  deal  about  the  work  that 
you  are  doing  here,  and  I  have  come  to  see  if  there 
is  anything  I  can  do  to  help  you.  I  am  not  very 
experienced,  but  I  am  deeply  interested,  and  per- 
haps that  will  aid  me  in  becoming  useful.  Will 
you  not  let  me  do  some  little  thing  ?  " 

She  did  not  realize  the  strength  of  appeal  in  her 
voice,  but  La  Signorina  did. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  did  come,"  the  nurse  an- 
swered, after  a  moment's  thought.  "  So  much  you 
may  help  us.  We  have  in  other  room  a  poor  baby 
who  yesterday  did  have  op'ration  on  the  eye.  At 
home  there  is  no  mother,  and  Doctor  Burr's  not 
like  to  send  the  poor  baby  to  such  home  all  alone. 
If  you  will  come  for  few  days  and  sit  by  the 
baby  when  is  gone  Doctor  Burr's  and  I  need  make 
the  calls,  so  much  good  you  may  do." 


THE  NURSE  OF  DOMINIQUE  151 

"  Is  he  very  dirty  ?  "  asked  Margaret,  feeling  a 
natural  shrinking  from  possible  unknown  horrors. 
La  Signorina  laughed. 

"  No,  he  is  not  dirt',''  she  said.  "  He  is  clean 
when  he  do  come  and  I  have  given  good  bath,  too. 
You  need  not  be  'fraid." 

She  led  the  way  through  the  waiting  room  and 
raised  the  hasp  on  the  door  leading  to  the  "  back 
alley."  When  Margaret  saw  the  bandaged  head 
on  the  pillow  of  Burroughs's  narrow  bed  in  the 
corner  of  the  room,  she  quickly  descended  the 
steps  and  bent  over  the  little  one.  For  a  moment 
she  was  silent,  for  her  heart  was  beating  very 
swiftly. 

"  So  good  has  Doctor  Burr's  been  to  poor  little 
boy ! "  went  on  La  Signorina,  in  her  quiet  voice. 
"  When  the  great  doctor  did  make  op'ration  on  the 
eye,  Doctor  Burr's  did  say  '  Let  him  stay  here  to- 
night. I  will  take  care.'  When  I  go  to  my  room 
I  say,  '  Ah  !  Dottore,  how  you  will  sleep  to-night  ? ' 
And  he  say,  '  I  not  care  for  to  sleep,  to-night,  Sig- 
norina, I  have  much  to  study  and  I  sit  up  for  that. 
It  is  just 's  well  the  boy  do  stay.'  And  then  the 
poor  baby  do  cry  much  and  say,  '  Tata  mio,  tata 
mio,  baciami ! '  '  What  he  say,  Signorina  ? '  says 
Doctor  Burr's.  I  tell  him  poor  baby  want  his  papa 
kiss  him  good-night.  And  then  Doctor  Burr's  did 


152  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

put  the  arms  close  round  the  baby  and  kiss  him  so 
gentl'  and  so  kind  and  poor  baby  cannot  see  and 
he  think  his  papa  has  kissed  him  and  so  still  he 
lie  in  arms  ,of  Doctor  Burr's  and  say  so  happy, 
'  Tata  mio,  tata  mio  bello,'  till  he  go  sleep." 

Margaret  did  not  know  why  she  trembled  so, 
but  she  laid  the  little  bandaged  head  against  her 
breast  and  kissed  the  full  red  lips  of  the  tiny 
patient. 

"  I  will  stay  gladly,  Signorina,"  she  said. 

To  come  in  touch  with  her  lover's  work  and  life 
had  been  a  growing  desire  of  Margaret  Worthing- 
ton's  heart.  She  was  far  from  being  the  happy 
girl  her  mother  believed  her  to  be,  and  the  know- 
ledge of  Doctor  Raymond's  love  for  her  had  but 
increased  the  sorrow  in  her  heart.  As  the  wish  to 
do  something  at  St.  Luke's  increased,  she  laughed 
at  herself  for  entertaining  such  a  thought.  It  was 
only  story  book  girls  and  lovelorn  damsels  upon 
the  stage  who  did  such  things,  and  she  had  always 
believed  that  they  were  very  silly  and  improbable 
creatures.  Yet  finding  a  response  to  their  sensa- 
tions in  her  own  breast,  she  began  to  believe  that 
life  is  as  strange  as  literature  and  that  the  stress 
of  circumstance  may  develop  unsuspected  qualities. 
It  was  through  a  member  of  the  board  of  managers 
that  she  learned  that  there  were  sometimes  oppor- 


THE  NURSE  OF  DOMINIQUE  153 

tunities  for  helping  at  St.  Luke's,  and  knowing  that 
Burroughs  was  absent  from  the  dispensary  several 
hours  each  day,  she  had  at  length  put  her  wishes 
into  action.  She  felt  a  little  frightened  now  that 
she  had  carried  out  her  plan  and  she  wondered  how 
the  experiment  would  result.  The  nurse  busied 
herself  with  some  sterilizing  and  Margaret  sat  by 
the  couch  holding  the  boy's  hand  in  hers.  He  was 
half  asleep  and  quite  free  from  pain.  Margaret 
noted  every  detail  of  the  room ;  the  odd  jumble  of 
furniture,  the  fragments  of  carpet  on  the  uneven 
floor,  the  crowded  but  orderly  corner  where  Bur- 
roughs's  trunk  stood.  And  this  was  his  home ! 

"  You  will  not  need  stay  after  quart'  past  three," 
said  La  Signorina.  "  Doctor  Burr's  do  come  at 
half  past  and  soon  I  am  through  with  the  calls. 
You  will  give  med'cine  at  half-past  two  and  little 
drink  of  broth  at  three.  Then,  if  you  like,  you 
go;  or  if  you  like,  you  stay  see  Doctor  Burr's. 
You  know  him?  He  is  nice  young  man." 

"  I  have  met  him,"  said  Margaret,  quietly. 

"  Then  you  will  like  see  him." 

"  No,  not  to-day,"  replied  Margaret. 

"  Well,  I  go  now,"  said  La  Signorina,  whose 
romance-loving  heart  had  already  begun  to  conjec- 
ture about  her  guest.  Then  she  put  on  her  wraps, 
kissed  Dominique,  and  departed. 


154          THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

Margaret  dropped  upon  her  knees  and  fell  into 
the  absorption  of  prayer.  How  close  she  had  come 
to  the  heart  she  loved !  Her  mind  was  in  a  chaos, 
save  for  the  one  thought  that  she  had  drawn  near 
to  Philip  Burroughs. 

La  Signorina  thought  about  her  guest  a  good 
deal  that  afternoon.  The  more  she  considered  the 
matter,  the  more  certain  she  became  that  the 
strange  young  woman  had  not  come  to  St.  Luke's 
simply  out  of  a  love  for  the  work.  For  what  then  ? 
There  could  be  but  one  possible  reason.  And  she 
had  not  told  her  name.  She  probably  wished  to 
keep  her  identity  hidden.  Very  well !  La  Signor- 
ina would  be  the  last  one  to  reveal  the  particulars 
of  her  visit.  If  the  visitor  was  the  sweetheart 
of  Doctor  Burroughs,  La  Signorina  would  not 
give  the  young  man  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
that  his  fiancee  had  been  to  the  dispensary.  If  the 
girl  loved  Burroughs  in  secret,  surely  La  Signor- 
ina would  not  betray  her.  She  would  have  to  tell 
the  interne  that  she  had  some  one  to  care  for 
Dominique,  but  not  one  word  describing  the  new 
helper  should  pass  her  lips  ;  and  as  for  names,  she 
could  not  reveal  them,  for  she  did  not  know  them 
herself. 

"  You  need  not  send  home  Dominique  this  day," 
she  said  the  next  morning,  as  she  worked  in  the 


THE  NURSE  OF  DOMINIQUE  155 

store  closet.  "  There  is  come  a  young  lady  who 
will  sit  in  afternoon  with  him." 

"  A  young  lady  !  "  exclaimed  Burroughs,  inter- 
ested at  once.  "  Who  is  she,  and  how  did  she 
happen  to  come  here  ?  " 

"How  I  can  tell?  She  did  hear  somewhere  of 
our  work,  and  did  come,"  replied  the  crafty  nurse, 
smiling  to  herself.  "  It  is  enough  to  know  that 
she  do  take  good  care  of  Dominique,  and  that  he 
do  like  her." 

"  Well,  now,  see  here,"  said  Burroughs,  ap- 
proaching the  closet,  "  you  need  n't  think  you  're 
going  to  have  any  attractive  young  ladies  down 
here  without  my  seeing  them.  I  shall  come  home 
early  to-day  on  purpose  to  see  her.  What 's  her 
name  ?  " 

"  Oh,  what  boy ! "  cried  the  nurse,  professing 
great  impatience.  "  If  I  should  tell  name,  what 
you  would  know  ?  Must  you  know  everything  ? 
No,  you  shall  not.  I  will  not  tell  you  when  so 
anxious  you  are.  Go  from  here  — presto  !  presto  !  " 

Burroughs  laughed,  and  went  into  the  office  for 
his  hat. 

"  You  remember  what  I  say,"  he  called  back. 
"  I  get  out  of  school  early  to-day,  and  I  shall  come 
down  right  away  and  see  your  pretty  girl  for 
myself." 


156  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"La,  la,  la!"  laughed  the  nurse.  "What  I 
care  ?  You  go  now  to  school ;  not  stop  for  talk. 
Cattivo  ragazzo  !  " 

Burroughs  chuckled  to  himself,  and  went  out. 

That  afternoon  Margaret  appeared  at  her  post 
promptly,  and  La  Signorina  lingered  for  a  chat. 
She  allowed  the  conversation  to  drift  around  to 
Burroughs,  and  she  told  the  things  she  felt  that  her 
visitor  would  like  to  hear  ;  stories  of  his  kindness 
to  the  poor,  of  his  increasing  earnestness  in  his 
work,  of  the  risk  of  contagion  which  he  often  ran, 
and  of  how  his  patients  were  coming  to  love  him. 

"  Doctor  Burr's  was  poor  boy,"  she  said,  "  and 
so  he  is  sympathetic  with  these  poor  people.  Other 
doctors  there  have  been  here  who  were  kind,  but 
they  had  not  the  same  spir't  as  Doctor  Burr's. 
The  rich  can  give  money  to  the  poor  people,  and 
be  good  to  them  in  one  way,  but  it  is  only  those 
who  know  well  how  hard  is  it  to  be  poor  who  can 
give  them  the  heart  as  Doctor  Burr's  gives.  '  Ah, 
Signorina,'  will  say  Doctor  Burr's  when  I  tell  him 
too  hard  he  do  work,  '  I  am  poor  man.  Must  not 
I  be  good  to  these  poor  men  ?  Why  should  I  hold 
myself  too  high  to  work  for  them  ?  Who  will  be 
friends,  if  not  you  and  I  ?  Will  Spanish  doctor  ? 
Will  Scarabin'  ? '  So  good  has  Doctor  Burr's 
been  to  my  poor  people ;  you  cannot  know." 


THE  NURSE  OF  DOMINIQUE  157 

"What  a  splendid  man  he  must  be  for  the 
place  !  "  murmured  Margaret. 

"And  so  good  he  has  been  to  me,"  continued 
La  Signorina,  musing.  "  Sometimes  so  tired  I  am, 
and  much  troubled  with  some  things  in  Italy. 
Then  I  tell  all  to  Doctor  Burr's,  and  he  do  give  so 
good  advice,  and  say  how  sorry  is  he  for  me,  and 
then  he  laugh  and  say,  '  Cheer  up,  Signorina,  cheer 
up  !  The  worst  is  yet  to  come.'  And  we  both  do 
laugh,  and  I  do  feel  better." 

"  Poor  Phil,"  thought  Margaret.  "  How  often 
I  have  heard  him  say  that !  And  something  worse 
has  been  before  him  a  great  many  times.  If 
only  his  fortune  would  turn !  " 

As  they  talked,  little  Dominique  sat  up  in  bed 
holding  the  mulatto  doll  in  close  embrace,  and 
singing  in  his  baby  voice,  — 

"'Oh,  Maria!     Oh,  Maria  ! 
Quanta  bella  fa  amore  co  tia ! 
Oh,  Maria  !     Oh,  Maria ! '  " 

He  knew  only  the  opening  lines  of  the  frivolous 
love-song,  and  he  sang  them  over  and  over  again. 

"What  is  he  singing,  Signorina?"  questioned 
Margaret. 

"  Oh,  it  is  silly  song,"  said  the  nurse,  shrugging 
her  shoulders.  "  It  say,  '  Oh,  Maria !  Oh,  Maria ! 
How  beautiful  to  make  love  to  thee ! '  But  you 


158  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

must  not  learn  it,  for  it  is  not  Italian  —  it  is 
dialect." 

Margaret  did  not  learn  it,  but  many  times  after- 
ward the  dull  little  air  came  back  to  her,  and  she 
would  seem  to  see  the  "  back  alley,"  and  to  hear 
those  words  of  La  Signorina's  which  had  been  like 
food  to  her  hungry  heart. 

Soon  afterward  La  Signorina  went  away,  leav- 
ing Margaret  alone  with  the  boy.  She  had 
brought  a  bunch  of  violets  with  her  that  day,  and 
Dominique  was  delighted  when  she  allowed  him  to 
hold  the  bouquet  in  his  hands.  When  he  had 
buried  his  nose  in  the  blossoms  as  long  as  Mar- 
garet thought  was  good  for  them,  she  put  them  in 
a  glass  of  water  and  set  them  upon  the  window 
sill.  Her  mood  was  one  of  sadness.  Rizza  was  to 
take  his  son  away  the  next  day,  and  her  experi- 
ment would  be  over.  She  must  not  come  again  to 
the  dreary  bit  of  a  room  which  she  had  hallowed 
with  so  many  prayers.  How  empty  her  days 
would  be  without  this  little  mission.  All  had  gone 
well  this  time,  but  the  risk  of  discovery  was  too 
great,  and  she  was  too  frank  a  girl  continually  to 
deceive  her  father.  The  boy  was  growing  restless, 
and  tugging  at  his  bandages.  Margaret  lifted  him 
out  of  bed,  and  rocked  him  to  and  fro  in  her  arms 
as  she  sang  a  lullaby  she  had  learned  somewhere. 


THE  NURSE  OF  DOMINIQUE  159 

"  The  blue  haze  hangs  o'er  the  far-off  town, 

Sleep,  bambino,  sleep, 
And  the  little  white  ships  rock  up  and  down, 

Sleep,  bambino,  sleep. 
Mother  will  sing  till  her  work  is  done 
Midst  the  rollicking  vines  in  the  hillside  sun, 
Blue,  and  purple,  and  green  they  run  — 
Sleep,  bambino,  sleep. 

"  Mouth  for  a  grape  and  lips  to  kiss, 
Sleep,  bambino,  sleep  "  — 

True  to  his  word,  Burroughs  came  home  early, 
and  stood  stock  still  in  the  centre  of  the  waiting- 
room,  listening  to  the  Voice.  The  door  was  closed ; 
he  could  not  see  her.  He  took  a  step  forward  and 
then  stopped.  He  had  remembered  his  promise. 
He  felt  a  bit  dizzy,  and  put  his  hand  to  his  head, 
then  stretched  out  his  arms  toward  the  door  which 
his  sense  of  honor  forbade  him  to  open.  She  was 
so  near,  and  yet  he  must  not  see  her  ;  so  near,  yet 
he  must  hide  himself  from  her  sight.  With  a 
moan  of  grief  he  crossed  the  entry  into  the  office, 
and  shut  the  door.  He  sank  into  the  chair  before 
the  desk,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  He 
sat  thus,  like  one  in  a  dream,  until  he  heard  her 
step  in  the  hall,  and  heard  the  street  door  close 
behind  her.  His  impulse  was  to  look  after  her, 
but  the  rigid  Puritan  conscience  forbade  him. 
Instead,  he  went  out  into  the  back  room,  catching 


160  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

the  fragrance  of  her  violets,  and  seeing  the  chair 
where  she  had  sat  drawn  up  beside  the  cot.  He 
seated  himself  mechanically  in  the  place  she  had 
just  vacated,  and  there  La  Signorina  found  him 
when  she  entered  a  little  later. 

It  was  like  an  open  book  to  her.  She  saw  the 
flowers,  and  the  man  by  the  bedside.  She  placed 
the  violets  in  his  hand,  and  looked  into  his  eyes 
with  a  sympathy  which  he  could  not  mistake. 
Neither  spoke,  yet  from  that  instant  each  under- 
stood the  other  perfectly. 


CHAPTER  XV 
A  WORD  OF  WARNING 

SPRING  came  to  the  old  hill  as  well  as  to  the 
more  favored  neighborhoods.  First  the  sky  grew 
very  tender  and  the  cold,  steel-blue  tones  went  out 
of  the  waters  of  the  harbor.  Then,  as  the  sun 
mounted  higher,  and  the  days  grew  long  and  mild, 
the  grass  in  the  burial  ground  awoke  and  the  tree 
tops  turned  a  tender  green.  Soft  airs  drifted 
across  the  city  like  the  breath  of  a  new  hope,  and 
early  one  morning  the  liquid  notes  of  a  robin 
sounded  from  the  green  arches  of  the  graveyard 
elms.  Burroughs,  listening,  wondered  what  had 
inspired  this  little  wayfarer  on  chartless  skies  to 
pause  and  sing  above  those  ancient  graves  his  song 
of  nature  and  eternal  springtime. 

Burroughs  found  himself  encouraged  as  he 
listened,  for  it  is  hard  to  be  down-hearted  when 
every  breeze  whispers  "  Arise  !  Rejoice !  "  and  the 
world-old  miracle  of  nature's  triumph  over  death 
is  being  performed  before  one's  very  eyes.  Bur- 
roughs took  heart.  Perhaps  matters  would  im- 


162          THE  HEART  OP  THE  DOCTOR 

prove.  Certainly  great  changes  lay  before  him, 
for  he  was  entering  the  last  month  of  his  medical 
course  and  the  future,  although  unknown,  held 
possibilities  of  vital  import.  He  was  already  look- 
ing about  him  for  a  professional  opening. 

One  evening  as  he  was  listening  to  one  of  Miss 
Cutter's  tirades  he  saw  Raymond  coming  up  the 
hill. 

44  It 's  a  long  time  since  you  've  scraped  on  the 
blinds,  Walter,"  Burroughs  said  in  greeting. 

Raymond  drew  his  walking  stick  down  the 
shutters  of  the  office  window.  It  was  an  old 
signal  between  the  friends. 

44  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  and  to-night  it  is  of  no  use 
to  do  it,  for  the  shutters  are  not  drawn  and  you 
are  not  in  the  office.  Phil,  old  boy  !  It 's  good  to 
see  you.  I  've  been  a  perfect  heathen  to  neglect 
you  so." 

Then  catching  sight  of  Miss  Cutter  in  her  door- 
way, he  added,  "  Hello !  There  's  that  funny  old 
woman.  Do  you  suppose  she  would  let  me  snap 
my  camera  at  her  sometime  ?  " 

44 1  '11  ask  her,"  said  Burroughs. 

44  My  fortygraf ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Cutter. 
44  Wai,  mebbe  I  might  ef  you  '11  stand  up  'longside 
er  me,  dar-tory ;  this  way.  There  !  how  'd  that 
do?"  she  added,  addressing  Raymond. 


A  WORD  OF  WARNING  163 

"  Finely.     I  wish  I  had  my  camera  here  now." 

Miss  Cutter  slipped  her  arm  through  Burroughs's 
and  executed  a  few  sprightly  steps. 

"  There !  "  she  exclaimed,  tossing  her  head, 
"Look  at  us  now.  Arm  in  arm,  arm  in  arm! 
Ain't  we  a  fine  lookin'  couple  ?  " 

Raymond  was  very  sure  that  they  were,  and 
disentangling  themselves  from  Miss  Cutter's  society 
as  soon  as  they  could,  the  two  went  off  for  a  sher- 
bet at  Pastorelli's  and  a  stroll  through  the  streets, 
boisterous  with  light-hearted  mirth  and  overflowing 
with  picturesque  life.  When  Burroughs  had  been 
kissed  by  Pastorelli's  wife  and  Raymond  had  fed 
peanuts  to  Giorgio,  they  sat  down  at  the  little 
marble-topped  table  behind  the  screen.  Pastorelli's 
wife  brought  the  sherbet  from  the  refrigerator, 
patted  them  upon  their  shoulders  and  murmured, 
"Nice-a,  nice-a,"  with  her  usual  eloquence  of  smile 
and  gesture.  But  instead  of  leaving  them  to 
themselves,  she  stopped  hesitantly  and  looked  at 
Burroughs  as  if  wishing  to  say  something,  yet  not 
knowing  how  to  begin. 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  the  interne. 

"  Know-a  Scarabin'  ?     Yes-a  ?  "  she  whispered. 

"  Yes,"  Burroughs  replied. 

"Tek-a  much-a  care-a,  dottore,"  she  went  on, 
whispering  still. 


164  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  Why  ?  "  queried  Burroughs. 

"  'Sh  !  'sh ! "  she  continued,  holding  up  a  warn- 
ing hand.  "Scarabin'  no  like-a  dottore.  'Sh! 
'sh!  " 

"  I  'm  not  afraid  of  Scarabini,"  laughed  Bur- 
roughs. 

But  Pastorelli's  wife  continued  to  utter  occa- 
sional notes  of  warning  as  the  two  men  ate  their 
sherbet,  and  when  they  went  out  of  the  shop  Ray- 
mond said,  — 

"  I  warned  you  long  ago  against  Scarabini.  He 
is  certainly  dangerous." 

"  I  'm  not  afraid  of  him.  He  is  a  bully,  and 
bullies  are  always  cowards." 

"Not  always." 

"  Ugh !  "  exclaimed  Burroughs,  "  one  would 
think  we  were  living  in  the  dark  ages.  That 
sherbet  must  have  gone  to  your  head,  Raymond. 
It  is  perfectly  safe  down  here  for  an  American. 
It  is  only  the  Dagoes  who  go  out  on  the  streets  by 
night  and  settle  their  differences  with  the  sti- 
letto." 

"  But  that  woman  seemed  to  have  a  pretty  defi- 
nite idea  in  her  mind,"  persisted  Raymond. 

"  Oh,  she 's  a  susceptible  creature.  Her  notions 
have  no  value." 

Raymond  let  the  subject  drop,  and  the  two  men 


A  WORD  OF  WARNING  165 

wandered  along  the  streets  peeping  in  the  shop 
windows,  pricing  the  squids  and  eels  exposed  for 
sale  on  handcarts,  and  pausing  now  and  then  to 
talk  with  some  smiling  retainer  of  the  dispensary. 
Burroughs  was  especially  anxious  that  Raymond 
should  see  Mikey.  Mikey  was  his  prize  baby,  for 
he  had  pulled  him  through  many  trying  experiences. 
It  had  been  the  unfortunate  baby's  lot  to  suffer 
many  things  during  his  brief  sojourn  in  this  vale 
of  tears.  One  time,  as  Burroughs  explained  to 
Eaymond,  the  parents  of  Mikey  had  brought  him 
to  St.  Luke's  in  an  unconscious  condition.  Bur- 
roughs would  not  have  known  how  to  prescribe 
had  it  not  been  for  La  Signorina,  who  was  well 
versed  in  the  mysteries  of  Sicilian  child-culture. 
She  had  at  once  charged  the  parents  with  having 
drugged  their  baby.  No ;  no !  Heaven  itself 
should  hear  them  declare  their  innocence.  But 
she  had  persisted  and  they  at  length  confessed  that 
they  had  fed  Mikey  with  whiskey  to  make  him 
sleep  so  that  they  could  attend  a  funeral  and  ride 
in  the  procession. 

The  young  men  found  Mikey  playing  in  the 
gutter  in  front  of  his  humble  home.  He  was  about 
two  years  old  and  had  a  small,  shrunken  body  and 
a  heavy  head  covered  with  tangled,  curly  hair.  He 
wore  a  single  short  garment  and  his  rickety  little 


166  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

legs  were  black  with  the  mud  of  the  street.  When 
an  older  brother  saw  the  men  gazing  at  Mikey,  he 
rushed  out  and  carried  the  top-heavy  baby  into  the 
house,  scowling  savagely  at  the  inquisitive  Ameri- 
cans. The  mother,  looking  out  of  the  window,  saw 
this  incident  and  hurried  downstairs.  She  met 
the  boy  with  his  burden  half  way  up  and  took 
Mikey  in  her  arms,  administering  a  slap  to  the 
older  child  which  was  distinctly  audible  on  the 
sidewalk.  Then  she  came  out  to  greet  il  dottore, 
smiling  and  bowing,  with  Mikey  on  her  arm. 

Burroughs's  knowledge  of  Italian  was  restricted 
to  a  few  phrases  of  dialect,  which  greatly  distressed 
La  Signorina.  He  called  all  babies  "  bambino  " 
regardless  of  sex,  and  he  knew  the  words  for  spoon, 
glass  of  water  and  a  few  other  objects  frequently 
employed  in  his  professional  duties.  He  considered 
Mikey 's  mother  a  good  subject  for  practice,  and  so 
he  repeated  all  the  phrases  he  knew,  to  her  great 
interest  but  small  enlightenment.  So  pleased  was 
she  by  his  attentions  that  when  Burroughs  turned 
to  go,  she  bade  Mikey  "Shek  a  day-day  to  dot- 
tore,"  adding,  with  sweet  persuasiveness,  "  Kees-a 
dottore,"  a  suggestion  which  Mikey  was  so  quick 
to  act  upon  that,  before  Burroughs  realized  what 
was  going  to  happen,  Mikey  had  stuck  out  his 
tongue  and  lapped  the  student's  face.  Mikey's 


A  WORD  OF  WARNING  167 

mouth  was  full  of  molasses  taffy.  Burroughs 
jumped  back  when  it  was  too  late  and  the  mother 
held  up  her  darling  to  Raymond. 

"  Kees-a,  kees-a,"  she  said,  sweetly. 

"  Don't  disturb  the  little  one,  madam,"  Raymond 
exclaimed,  as  he  dodged  and  both  men  beat  a  hasty 
retreat. 

When  Burroughs  had  wiped  the  molasses  from 
his  face  and  Raymond  had  stopped  laughing  at 
him,  the  latter  said,  — 

"  No  more  Mikeys  to-night,  if  you  please.  Let 's 
go  down  on  the  terraces." 

As  they  walked  thither  a  young  man  beckoned 
Burroughs  aside  and  held  him  in  conversation  for 
a  few  moments.  When  the  student  rejoined  his 
friend  he  said,  — 

"  Do  you  remember  that  *  heart '  case  I  had  in 
the  winter?  That  fellow  who  spoke  to  me  just 
now  is  a  cousin  of  Barone,  the  lover.  He  says 
Barone  is  coming  to  town  next  Thursday  to  hear 
his  sweetheart,  Celestia  Carmanti,  sing  at  the 
opera  house." 

"  Oh,  I  know  about  her  —  I  heard  her  sing  at 
Mrs.  Stebbins's  tea  in  January.  She  's  a  pretty 
girl  and  she  has  a  superb  voice.  I  did  n't  realize 
that  she  was  the  lovelorn  damsel  you  told  me 
about.  It's  a  shame,"  he  went  on,  after  a  mo- 


168  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

ment's  thought,  "  that  a  pretty  girl  like  her  can't 
marry  the  man  she  wants  to.  Such  cases  are 
always  sad." 

Some  children  on  the  terraces  were  playing 
"  London  Bridge,"  under  an  electric  light,  and 
Burroughs  and  Raymond  seated  themselves  on  a 
neighboring  settee  to  watch  the  game.  They  were 
amused  to  find  that  the  old  rhyme  had  been  revised 
and  that  instead  of  being  ordered  off  to  prison  it 
was 

"  Down  to  the  Island  you  most  go, 
My  fair  lady,  oh  !  " 

Thus  were  the  children's  games  tinged  by  their 
surroundings.  When  the  game  was  over  and  the 
children  were  picking  up  the  moths  that  had  met 
death  in  the  enticing  glare  of  the  arc-lamp,  Ray- 
mond said,  — 

"  I  can't  keep  that  pretty  little  Italian  girl  out 
of  my  mind.  I  wish  I  could  do  something  for 
her." 

"  The  best  thing  you  could  do  for  Celestia  would 
be  to  interest  some  rich  woman  in  her ;  some  one 
who  would  send  her  to  Europe  for  a  year's  study." 

"  Would  such  a  glittering  prospect  soften  the 
heart  of  Carmanti  padre  ?  " 

"  So  that  he  would  '  let  marry  Celestia  the  good 
Barone,'  as  La  Signorina  says  ?  No,  I  do  not 


A  WORD  OF  WARNING  169 

think  so.  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  the  Angel 
Gabriel  himself  would  not  be  good  enough  for 
Celestia  if  she  were  patronized  by  the  uptown 
people." 

"  But  I  want  to  help  her  marry  Barone,"  urged 
Eaymond.  "  I  believe  I  will  elope  with  her  — 
acting  as  Barone's  deputy,  of  course." 

"  You  'd  better  not,"  laughed  Burroughs.  "  You 
would  get  into  trouble."  * 

"  I  'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  Now,  if  I  came  like 
a  serenader  under  her  window  some  night,  don't 
you  suppose  that  she  would  jump  out  and  run  away 
with  me  ?  —  to  Barone,  you  understand  ?  " 

"  That  sounds  like  What  's-his-name  in  the  Mer- 
chant of  Venice." 

"  It  does  a  little,  and  the  setting  is  quite  Italian, 
although  the  canals  and  gondoliers  are  lacking. 
Jove  !  What  a  lark  it  would  be!  I'd  like  to  do 
it." 

"  You  take  care.  Don't  get  mixed  up  in  any 
Italian  scrapes.  But  of  course  you  are  joking." 

"  Certainly,"  laughed  Raymond,  lightly,  as  he 
rose.  "  Well,  I  must  get  me  up  into  the  land  of 
conventionalities.  I  believe  there  's  twice  as  much 
fun  to  be  had  down  here  as  there  is  among  us  who 
are  trussed  up  with  a  hundred  rules  of  etiquette." 

"Perhaps  so,"  returned  Burroughs.     "I  don't 


170  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

quite  see  the  funny  side.  You  are  in  a  better  posi- 
tion to  judge  about  the  matter  than  I." 

As  they  went  toward  the  Avenue,  Burroughs 
pointed  to  a  certain  tenement  house. 

"  There 's  where  Barone  will  stop  when  he  comes 
to  town,  Thursday.  It 's  where  he  used  to  board, 
and  his  cousin  lives  there." 

"  Does  he  ?  "  returned  Raymond,  showing  little 
interest,  and  Burroughs  did  not  see  the  suggestion 
of  a  smile  that  flitted  over  his  friend's  face  as  he 
looked  at  the  building. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
CELESTIA'S  ELOPEMENT 

CELESTIA'S  recital  took  place  at  the  opera  house 
the  following  Thursday  afternoon. 

That  evening  at  eleven  o'clock  Burroughs 
yawned  over  his  books,  stacked  them  above  his 
desk,  and  blew  out  his  lamp.  Then  he  pushed  up 
the  window  shade,  threw  up  the  sash,  and  put  his 
head  out.  It  was  a  mild  night  in  May,  and  the 
moon  was  full.  The  towers  of  Santa  Maria,  as 
elfin  as  battlements  of  fairy  land,  raised  crosses  of 
silver  upon  its  neighboring  pinnacles.  The  crude 
bulk  of  tenements  to  right  and  left  was  blurred  and 
softened  like  castles  on  the  hills  of  sleep.  The 
street  lay  half  in  shadow,  half  in  moonlight. 

There  was  a  suggestion  of  far-off  music  —  the 
tinkle  of  mandolins,  the  soft  cadenza  of  guitars. 
Then  a  group  of  serenaders  turned  the  corner  and 
came  up  the  street.  They  paused  before  old 
Pietro's  house  and  stood  in  the  shadow.  The 
velvet  pleading  of  the  guitars  swelled  and  died 
away  ;  the  mandolins  quivered  like  a  lover's  voice, 


172  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

tremulous  with  emotion.  Burroughs  listened  in  a 
sort  of  ecstasy.  The  hour,  the  moonlight,  the  in- 
effable charm  of  the  music,  swept  every  workaday 
impulse  from  his  mind.  He,  the  prosaic  and  un- 
sentimental, fell  under  the  thrall  of  the  music  and 
listened  as  in  a  dream.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
there  were  roses  —  roses  and  moonlight.  .  .  .  Ah ! 
what  moonlight !  .  .  .  and  he  was  at  absolute 
peace ;  so  happy ;  so  undisturbed.  .  .  .  How  the 
music  swayed  and  swooned  !  .  .  .  Was  it  music  or 
was  it  moonlight  ?  .  .  .  And  were  there  roses  .  .  . 
or  were  they  poppies  ...  or  was  it  the  perfume 
of  Her  breath  upon  his  cheek  ? 

The  serenaders  played  the  allegretto  movement 
from  the  "  Poet  and  Peasant  "  overture.  A  late 
straggler  wandered  homeward,  dragging  heavy  feet 
over  the  pavement ;  there  was  the  clang  of  the 
ferry  bell,  the  rumbling  of  a  cart  on  the  neighbor- 
ing thoroughfare.  Burroughs  was  conscious  of 
these  sounds  from  the  every-day  world,  but  they 
did  not  break  the  spell,  they  simply  intensified 
it.  Then  a  man  's  singing  voice  drifted  in  on  his 
dream  and  he  was  vaguely  conscious  of  the  words : 

"  Where  were  there  ever  lips  so  soft  and  sweet  as  thine  ? 
Two  red  lips  so  full  and  warm,  lips  as  red  as  wine ! 
Heaven  and  earth  are  moonlight  when  the  day  is  done  ; 
Give  me  thy  lips,  Love,  and  let  us  breathe  as  one  ! 


CELESTIA'S  ELOPEMENT  173 

For  hark,  i  mandolin! !  Hark,  the  fairy  strain ! 
While  the  mellow  moonlight  falls  like  summer  rain. 
All  the  world  is  music,  all  my  heart  is  thine  ; 
Folded  in  mine  arms,  Love,  drink  my  soul  as  wine ! 
For  hark,  i  mandolin!  !  Hark,  the  fairy  strain  ! 
While  the  misty  moonlight  falls  like  summer  rain !  " 

There  was  something  very  familiar  in  the  rap- 
turous tenor  voice  that  floated  so  pleadingly  on 
the  spring  air.  Burroughs  collected  himself  and  be- 
gan to  think.  It  was  certainly  Raymond's  voice. 
Some  one  had  once  said  that  Raymond  was  a  per- 
fect moonlight  tenor  and  Burroughs  knew  it  now. 
Then  what  his  friend  had  said  flashed  through  his 
mind. 

"  I  'd  like  to  know,"  he  thought,  "  if  Walter  is 
carrying  out  that  Lorenzo  and  Jessica  plan.  I 
fancy  it 's  a  good  time  for  me  to  be  out  of  sight, 
for  if  he  is  going  to  run  away  with  Celestia,  it  will 
be  a  bit  more  comfortable  not  to  have  seen  him 
do  it." 

Burroughs  leaned  out  to  draw  his  shutters. 
Raymond  had  ceased  singing  and  the  mandolins 
were  tinkling  persuasively.  Burroughs  did  not 
know  it,  but  the  air  they  played  was  the  prelude 
to  the  song  by  which  Celestia  had  won  a  triumph 
that  afternoon.  The  interne  paused  a  moment  to 
listen,  and  he  heard  the  young  cantatrice  take  up 
the  opening  notes,  — 


174  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  Ogni  sera  di  sotto  al  mio  balcone 
Sento  cantare  una  canson  d'  amore. 
Piu  volte  la  ripete  un  bel  garzone 
E  batter  mi  sento  forte,  il  cuore." 

There  was  a  splendid  restraint  of  rapture  in  the 
passionate  young  voice  ;  the  art  was  almost  fault- 
less. The  mandolins  tinkled  vibrantly,  a  quiver- 
ing background  to  the  splendid  notes,  — 

"  O !  com'  e  bella  quella  melodia  ? 
O !  quant'  e  dolce  e  quanta  m'  e  gradita  ?  " 

The  voice  rose  higher  and  higher  ;  it  was  like 
the  soul  of  a  woman  melted  into  music ;  the  moon- 
flooded  night  seemed  to  pause  breathless,  for  the 
glorious  climax. 

When  it  was  over,  Burroughs  drew  in  his  head 
with  a  sigh  of  complete  satisfaction.  It  was  the 
most  wonderfully  beautiful  experience  of  his  life. 
He  stumbled  in  the  darkness  through  the  waiting 
room  to  the  "  back  alley,"  lit  his  lamp,  and  made 
preparations  to  retire.  The  room  was  horribly 
dingy ;  the  lamp  smoked ;  it  needed  a  new  wick. 
Burroughs  felt  that  his  whole  life  had  been  prose 
and  spluttering  lamps.  After  he  had  darkened 
the  room  and  crawled  into  bed,  he  heard  the  sound 
of  approaching  mandolins.  He  -heard  subdued 
voices  and  footsteps  passing  the  office  window. 
Then  the  familiar  sound  of  scraping  on  the  shutter 


CELESTIA'S  ELOPEMENT  175 

assured  him  that  his  friend  was  passing.  He 
sprang  out  of  bed,  but  the  footsteps  did  not  pause 
and  he  crept  back  again.  With  many  conflicting 
emotions,  he  lay  listening  as  the  sound  of  music 
died  away  in  the  distance. 

"  How  happy  and  care  free  that  fellow  is !  "  he 
thought.  "  The  whole  world  is  an  open  door  to 
him.  Was  Celestia  with  him,  I  wonder  ?  If  so,  I 
suppose  Barone  has  his  wish.  I  shall  know  whom 
to  employ  when  I  elope.  How  happy  Barone  will 
be !  The  old  man  will  forgive  them,  of  course. 
God  !  If  there  was  only  such  luck  in  store  for  me ! 
But  it's  'Grin  and  bear  it,'  I  suppose."  Then, 
"You  fool!  brace  up."  And  last  of  all,  as  he 
drifted  into  sleep,  that  cry  of  longing  which  never 
slept  within  his  breast,  "  Margaret  —  Margaret — 
Margaret ! " 


CHAPTER  XVII 
THE  FEAST  OF  RECONCILIATION 

THE  next  morning  old  Pietro  Carmanti  awoke 
feeling  perfectly  satisfied  with  himself,  Celestia, 
and  the  world  at  large.  He  was  even  well  pleased 
with  Barone,  for,  chancing  to  be  in  the  city  the 
night  before,  the  young  man  had  called  to  pay  his 
respects  to  the  family,  and  had  shown  by  every 
look  and  gesture  that  his  love  of  Celestia  was  a 
thing  of  the  past.  More  than  that,  when  a  party 
of  serenaders  had  honored  the  daughter  by  play- 
ing beneath  her  windows,  and  Celestia  had  gone 
into  the  front  room  to  sing  for  them,  Barone  had 
confessed  to  Pietro  that  he  recognized  his  former 
folly,  —  knowing  now,  as  he  himself  expressed  it, 
that  he  had  been  as  presumptuous  as  a  moth  look- 
ing at  a  star. 

Pietro  lay  in  bed,  mentally  counting  the  money 
which  he  knew  bulged  from  a  certain  old  leather 
pocketbook  hidden  between  the  mattresses.  On 
his  return  from  the  opera  house  the  previous  after- 
noon, when  flushed  by  pride  and  the  excitement  of 


THE  FEAST  OF  RECONCILIATION         177 

the  hour,  he  had  bidden  all  his  friends  to  a  feast 
and  dance  on  the  following  Sunday  afternoon  and 
evening  in  honor  of  his  daughter.  He  could  well 
afford  to  do  it.  Celestia  would  wear  her  beautiful 
new  gown,  there  would  be  plenty  of  good  wine, 
and  the  ice  cream  should  be  ordered  from  an  up- 
town caterer.  Pietro  was  not  a  poor  man.  He 
could  do  a  good  thing  for  his  daughter  if  he  chose. 
Yes! 

When  the  mother  awoke  she  rose  and  made  the 
kitchen  fire.  It  did  not  take  long  to  get  breakfast 
for  the  two,  as  they  ate  bread  and  cheese,  and 
drank  tea.  But  when  Celestia,  who  would  sleep 
late  that  morning,  was  ready  for  her  breakfast,  she 
must  have  a  chop,  a  soft  boiled  egg,  and  plenty  of 
fresh  milk.  There  was  time  enough  to  prepare 
that  when  she  woke.  The  concert  had  been  the 
greatest  event  of  their  lives,  and  the  father  and 
mother  could  talk  of  nothing  but  the  beautiful 
costumes  of  the  ladies,  the  splendors  of  the  opera 
house,  and  the  heavenly  manner  in  which  their 
darling  had  sung.  As  time  went  by,  Celestia's 
mother  began  to  grow  restless. 

"  I  wish  that  my  sweet  pet  would  wake,"  she 
said.  "  There  are  so  many  things  to  ask.  How 
think  you  all  those  player-men  knew  so  well  the 
difficult  songs  ?  " 


178  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  Celestia  did  tell  them,  I  think,"  said  Pietro. 
"  I  saw  her  look  at  the  head  man  when  first  she 
came  out." 

"  Was  it  not  most  wonderful !  She  looked  at 
him  as  if  she  were  a  countess,  and  he  was  to  take 
her  commands.  And  he  such  a  fiue  gentleman ! 
Ah,  it  is  a  great  lady  our  Celestia  will  be  some 
day." 

"  Yes.  When  I  did  see  her  so  beautiful  and  so 
smiling,  and  all  the  gentlemen  so  carefully  playing 
for  her,  *  Ah !  '  I  thought,  '  it  is  to  one  of  those 
player-men  I  would  like  to  marry  Celestia  ! ' ' 

"  Which  one  did  you  like  best  ? "  asked  the 
mother,  eagerly,  her  face  suffused  with  a  look  of 
maternal  pride. 

"  I  know  not  surely,  but  I  think  the  one  with 
the  great  brass  horn  that  went  over  the  head  and 
had  so  large  a  mouth." 

"  Ah !  But  I  liked  better  the  man  at  the  end 
who  played  many  things  —  the  drums,  the  bells, 
and  I  know  not  what  else." 

"Yes,  perhaps,"  the  father  assented,  thought- 
fully, "  but  we  need  not  decide  in  haste.  Still,  I 
like  best  the  great  brass  horn." 

The  mother  grew  impatient.  She  tiptoed  to  the 
door  of  her  daughter's  room  and  opened  it  care- 
fully. 


THE  FEAST  OF  RECONCILIATION         179 

"  One  peep  I  must  have,"  she  whispered,  "  to 
see  if  my  darling  sleeps  well." 

She  put  her  head  in  at  the  door  and  looked 
toward  the  bed.  There  was  no  one  in  it.  Seized 
by  a  sudden  trembling  she  stepped  into  the  room. 
It  was  in  its  usual  order.  The  shutters  were 
closed  ;  the  shades  were  drawn.  In  the  half  light 
she  could  see  Celestia's  white  gown  spread  upon 
the  chairs  where  she  had  left  it  the  night  before, 
and  the  little  satin  shoes  were  on  the  dressing 
case.  Nothing  seemed  changed  excepting  that  the 
lamp  in  front  of  the  Virgin's  picture  had  gone 
out,  and  that  the  rosary  was  missing  from  the 
prie-dieu. 

The  mother's  cry  brought  Pietro  to  the  spot. 
He  saw  the  untouched  bed,  and  groaned.  A  door 
led  from  the  room  to  the  public  hall  of  the  house. 
This  door  was  kept  carefully  bolted.  Pietro 
examined  it  and  found  that  the  bolt  was  drawn. 
Celestia  was  gone ;  whether  of  her  own  accord  or 
on  compulsion  he  could  not  be  sure.  There  was 
no  sign  of  a  struggle,  and  it  seemed  probable  that 
she  had  left  the  house  voluntarily.  But  with 
whom  had  she  gone  ?  Pietro  thought  of  Barone 
at  once.  It  could  not  be  he,  for  he  had  taken 
Pietro  out  for  a  sherbet  at  the  end  of  his  call. 
When  did  she  go?  She  was  in  the  house  at 


180  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

eleven  o'clock,  for  it  was  after  that  hour  when  she 
sang  for  the  serenaders.  Mystery  of  mysteries! 
Pietro  ran  to  the  tenements  upstairs,  calling  out 
in  his  frenzy  to  know  if  she  were  there.  The 
women  above  stairs  caught  up  their  babies  and 
hurried  down  to  the  sidewalk,  where  Pietro's  wife 
was  spreading  the  dreadful  news  at  the  top  of  her 
voice.  Every  one  talked  at  once  ;  every  one  had 
a  different  theory ;  every  one  offered  an  impracti- 
cable suggestion.  To  cap  the  climax,  Pastore's 
old  dog  contributed  his  mite  to  the  general  hubbub 
by  lifting  up  his  voice  in  a  series  of  prolonged, 
though  wind-broken  howls. 

At  that  moment  a  woman  in  an  upper  window 
of  a  neighboring  house  cried,  "  See  !  "  and  pointed 
down  the  street.  Every  one  looked,  and  what  ap- 
peared to  their  astonished  gaze  but  the  figures  of 
Celestia  and  Barone,  advancing  arm  in  arm  with 
an  air  of  serenity  which  was  the  complete  antithe- 
sis of  the  excitement  on  the  hill.  When  the 
mother  saw  them  she  uttered  a  cry  of  delight,  ran 
down  the  street,  and  caught  her  daughter  in  her 
arms.  Barone  smiled  indulgently  at  the  demon- 
stration, and  laughing  and  crying  by  turns,  Pietro's 
wife  led  them  up  the  hill.  The  people  advanced 
to  meet  them.  Barone  carried  his  head  very  high, 
but  Celestia  smiled  shyly,  and  looked  down  as  her 


THE  FEAST  OF  RECONCILIATION         181 

mother  pushed  aside  the  curious  neighbors,  an- 
nouncing the  while  that  the  two  were  married,  and 
that  she  for  one  was  perfectly  satisfied. 

Pietro  had  hung  back.  He  could  not  decide 
what  role  to  assume.  If  Celestia  were  truly  mar- 
ried, perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  accept  the  fact 
gracefully  than  to  let  the  crowd  know  that  he, 
the  astute,  had  been  checkmated.  He  could  not 
imagine  how  Barone  had  fooled  him,  but  time 
would  reveal  that.  Seeing  that  he  made  no  ad- 
vances, Celestia  went  to  him  and  held  up  her  lips. 
There  was  a  hint  of  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  My  good  daddy  will  forgive  his  little  girl,  and 
kiss  her  on  her  wedding  morning?"  she  mur- 
mured. 

What  could  old  Pietro  do? 

The  four  went  into  the  house,  closing  the  door 
upon  their  clamorous  neighbors.  Then  Barone 
told  his  story.  The  plan  had  been  made  by  a 
friend  of  his  —  there  was  no  need  to  tell  the  name. 
Barone  had  simply  followed  directions.  It  had 
been  his  part  to  engage  the  father's  attention  while 
his  friend  and  a  party  of  students  had  serenaded 
Celestia  under  her  windows.  Why  had  he  been 
chosen  to  detain  Pietro  ?  How  could  he  tell  ?  He 
had  not  planned  it.  It  gave  an  added  spice  of 
excitement  to  the  elopement,  he  supposed.  When 


182  THE  HEART  OF  THE   DOCTOR 

Celestia's  song  was  ended  she  had  wrapped  herself 
in  a  shawl,  slipped  quietly  from  her  room,  and 
gone  with  the  serenaders.  Whither?  To  the 
house  of  a  sympathetic  aunt  four  blocks  distant. 
Then,  lest  .Pietro  should  wonder  that  Celestia  did 
not  return  to  the  kitchen  to  say  good-night  before 
retiring,  Barone  had  taken  him  out  for  a  sherbet. 
The  mother  was  already  in  bed ;  she  thought  no- 
thing. Then  Barone  had  gone  to  his  lodging 
place  for  the  night,  and  that  morning  he  had 
called  for  Celestia  and  taken  her  to  the  City  Hall, 
where  they  had  been  married.  See !  Here  was 
the  certificate.  And  would  the  good  father  for- 
give Barone  ?  The  good  father  was  not  quite  sure 
whether  he  would  or  not.  It  was  very  hard  for 
him  to  swallow  his  pride ;  to  own  himself  and  his 
fine  plans  defeated.  As  he  hesitated  Celestia  put 
her  arm  around  his  neck. 

"  See,  Daddy,"  she  said,  persuasively,  "  this  is 
the  present  which  my  sweet  Salvatore  has  given 
me." 

It  was  a  gold  watch  with  a  long,  richly  chased 
chain.  Pietro  never  knew  it,  but  Raymond's 
money,  and  not  Barone's,  had  paid  for  the  pretty 
gift.  Pietro  fixed  his  black  eyes  upon  the  watch. 
"  This  Barone  is  not  so  bad  a  fellow,"  he  thought. 

Then  Salvatore  began  to  boast.     He  drew  a 


THE  FEAST  OF  RECONCILIATION         183 

wonderful  picture  of  his  recent  financial  success ; 
spoke  of  the  prominence  he  had  attained  in  the 
local  society  of  the  "  Sons  of  Italy "  in  his  new 
home ;  told  of  the  grand  ball  he  had  opened  on 
Shrove  Tuesday  evening;  hinted  at  the  suite  of 
rooms  he  had  fitted  up  for  his  bride,  and  ended  by 
nonchalantly  exhibiting  a  bank  note,  announcing 
with  a  shrug  that  it  was  nothing  at  all  —  enough, 
perhaps,  to  buy  a  piano  for  Celestia,  nothing 
more.  And  would  the  kind  father  forgive  him, 
and  accept  him  as  a  son-in-law  ? 

What  could  old  Pietro  do  ? 

It  was  soon  noised  abroad  that  the  party  on 
Sunday  afternoon  would  take  the  form  of  a  wed- 
ding celebration.  The  festivities  were  to  be  con- 
ducted upon  a  most  lavish  scale,  and  Burroughs 
and  Raymond  were  invited. 

"  Now,"  said  La  Signorina,  "  do  you  not  wish 
you  had  taken  pain  to  learn  my  language  ?  What 
you  will  do  when  all  talk  Italian  and  you  can 
understand  nothing  ?  " 

"I  can  say  something,  anyway,"  laughed  Bur- 
roughs. "  I  can  say, '  Com  star  '  to  the  bride,  and 
if  any  one  says  it  to  me,  I  know  enough  to 
answer." 

"  Yes ;  and  what  you  will  say  do  sound  like 
*  benny  gratsoo.'  Why  you  will  talk  dialect? 


184  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

Why  you  will  not  say,  '  Come  sta '  and  '  Bene, 
grazie,'  like  gentleman  ?  " 

Burroughs  laughed,  and  said  that  the  kind  of 
people  he  had  to  talk  to  seemed  to  understand 
him,  and  that  was  all  .he  cared. 

"  I  feel  positively  nervous,"  said  Raymond  the 
following  Sunday,  as  they  approached  the  house  of 
feasting.  "  I  am  afraid  I  shall  make  some  awful 
break." 

"  You !  "  laughed  Burroughs. 

"  Yes.  We  are  distinguished  guests,  and  if  we 
should  do  anything  contrary  to  custom  it  would 
make  Celestia  feel  dreadfully.  I  am  not  up  in  the 
etiquette  of  this  particular  circle." 

"  Neither  am  I,"  replied  Burroughs.  "  We  can 
only  keep  our  eyes  open  and  trust  to  luck." 

"  And  for  mercy's  sake,  don't  try  to  get  off  any 
of  your  mongrel  Italian." 

"  What  do  you  take  me  for  ? "  returned  Bur- 
roughs in  disgust. 

The  rooms  were  overflowing  with  people.  Every 
one  was  in  the  best  of  humor  and  there  was  much 
laughter  and  the  music  of  a  mandolin  and  guitar 
orchestra.  The  entrance  of  the  two  young  men 
caused  quite  a  flurry  of  excitement.  A  whisper 
went  through  the  rooms  that  these  were  two  of  the 
men  who  had  helped  in  the  elopement.  Barone  had 


THE  FEAST  OF  RECONCILIATION         185 

admitted  that  his  assistants  were  not  of  his  own 
nationality,  and  deductions  were  easy  to  make. 
Handsome  Raymond  towered  above  the  majority 
of  the  guests,  and  when  he  gallantly  kissed  the 
bride,  a  dozen  pretty  Italian  girls  fell  in  love  with 
him.  Celestia,  the  warm  blood  pulsing  beneath 
the  olive  brown  of  her  cheeks,  received  the  con- 
gratulations of  her  friends  with  a  proper  diffidence, 
exhibiting  her  new  watch  and  chain  and  telling 
every  one  that  she  was  perfectly  happy.  Barone 
was  practically  speechless  with  joy,  and  Pietro  and 
his  wife  beamed  with  a  complacency  augmented 
by  the  thought  of  the  big  bank  note  and  Salvatore's 
social  triumphs  at  the  Mardi  Gras  ball. 

Somebody  with  a  deep  bass  voice  sang  a  solo 
accompanied  by  the  guitars.  It  was  evidently  a 
comic  song,  for  there  was  much  applause  and 
laughter. 

"  I  wonder  what  it 's  about,"  said  Raymond. 
"  Imagine  being  the  only  people  in  the  room  who 
cannot  understand !  I  feel  as  if  I  were  a  thousand 
miles  from  home." 

Cake  and  ice  cream  were  being  constantly  passed 
among  the  guests,  and  Burroughs  and  his  friend 
were  well  supplied.  They  toasted  the  bride  in 
tiny  bumpers  of  something  so  strong  that  it  set 
them  choking  and  spluttering  in  most  ignominious 


186  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

confusion.  Everybody  laughed  good-naturedly, 
and  that  was  the  only  breach  of  etiquette  of  which 
the  two  Americans  were  guilty. 

In  the  midst  of  the  jollity,  Scarabini  entered. 
He  came  in  quietly,  spoke  to  Pietro  and  his  wife, 
and  then  went  over  to  the  bridal  couple.  Barone 
shook  hands  good-naturedly.  He  could  afford  to 
be  magnanimous  to  his  former  rival,  since  he  had 
won  the  prize.  But  when  Scarabini  extended  his 
hand  to  Celestia,  she  drew  back  and  looked  at  him 
coldly  without  speaking. 

"  Diavolo ! "  exclaimed  Scarabini,  under  his 
breath. 

As  he  turned  away,  he  met  Burroughs's  steady, 
disconcerting  gaze.  The  interne  had  witnessed 
the  little  episode  and  there  was  an  exultant  gleam 
in  his  eyes.  For  an  instant  the  two  men  looked 
at  each  other.  Then  Scarabini  dropped  his  eyes 
and  made  his  way  out  of  the  room.  From  that 
hour  he  abandoned  himself  to  a  single  thought, 
which  was  destined  to  eat  into  his  soul  until  there 
was  no  rest  for  him  on  earth  or  in  heaven. 

When  the  dancing  began,  Barone  led  off  with 
his  wife,  and  other  couples  followed.  Then  Uncle 
Tommaso  danced  with  the  bride  and  every  one  else 
formed  a  circle  around  the  edge  of  the  room  to 
watch  them.  Uncle  Tommaso  was  a  man  of  ample 


THE  FEAST  OF  RECONCILIATION         187 

proportions,  but  he  footed  it  bravely,  and  little 
Celestia  never  looked  more  dainty  tban  when  she 
swung  around  the  room  in  his  panting  embrace. 
Soon  after,  Burroughs  and  Kaymond  made  their 
adieus  and  withdrew.  They  went  over  to  the 
burying  ground  and  sat  in  the  soft  twilight  listen- 
ing to  the  music  and  laughter  which  issued  from 
Pietro's  house. 

" '  Well,  the  gods  give  us  joy ! '  "  quoted  Ray- 
mond, and  then  they  sat  in  silence,  each  busied 
with  his  own  thoughts.  Their  musings  were  dis- 
similar, yet  emanating  from  the  same  group  of 
suggestions.  Neither  dared  trust  himself  to  speak 
for  a  time,  but  at  length  Burroughs  said  with  a 
sigh  only  half  suppressed,  — 

"  And  all  things  come  to  him  who  waits." 

"  Yes  ?  "  questioned  his  friend.  "  Do  you  be- 
lieve that  ?  You  forget  that  Barone  did  not  wait." 

And  Burroughs  answered,  as  if  unconscious  that 
he  spoke  aloud,  —  "  You  must  not  tempt  me." 

"  Now  what  in  the  world  does  he  mean  by  that  ?  " 
thought  the  young  doctor  to  himself. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
A  MEETING  OF  THE  LADY-BOARD 

ONE  morning  Miss  Cutter  showed  unusual  signs 
of  activity.  Before  the  majority  of  Spring  Hill 
people  were  astir  she  was  throwing  dipperfuls  of 
water  on  her  sidewalk  and  sweeping  it  vigorously. 
Then  she  washed  her  sitting-room  window,  and  a 
little  later,  arrayed  in  her  Sunday  cap  and  best 
lawn  apron,  she  stood  in  her  doorway  waiting  for 
La  Signorina. 

"  Good-inornin',"  she  said  when  the  nurse  ap- 
peared. "  It  's  a  fine  day  for  the  Lady-board, 
ain't  it?" 

"  Yes,  I  t'ink,"  said  La  Signorina. 

"  I  s'pose  they  've  got  a  great  lot  er  new  notions 
sence  the  last  meetin'  and  air  castles  enough  ter 
fill  up  the  hull  er  Spring  Hill.  I'll  hev  a  fine 
time  talkin'  ter  'em.  There  '11  be  Miss  Marvin, 
most  likely  a-ridin'  her  wheel-thing,  'n'  old  lady 
Stebbins  come  in  her  kerri'ge  with  that  there 
stuck-up  coachman,  'n'  Miss  Henrietta  Terrell  will 
ad-vance  with  that  delicate  walk  er  hers,  ez  ef  she 


A  MEETING  OF  THE  LADY-BOARD       189 

was  steppin'  on  eggs.  Ef  I  weighed  two  hundred 
'n'  fifty  I  would  n't  try  ter  make  folks  think  I  was 
light  on  my  feet.  She  puts  'em  down  ser  soft  'n' 
ser  easy  ;  looks  's  ef  she  had  corns." 

"  Miss  Cutt',  Miss  Cutt',"  laughed  the  nurse, 
"  why  you  say  all  so  bad  of  Miss  Terr'l  ?  She  is 
aU  right." 

"  Yer  mean  she  thinks  she  's  all  right,"  cackled 
Miss  Cutter.  "  They  all  think  they  're  all  right, 
but  it 's  air  castles,  air  castles,  air  castles !  " 

The  first  of  the  committee  to  arrive  was  Miss 
Marvin.  As  Miss  Cutter  had  predicted,  she  came 
on  her  bicycle.  Miss  Cutter  went  out  to  greet 
her. 

"  Good-mornin',  Miss  Marvin,"  she  said,  sub- 
duing her  voice  to  what  she  considered  a  genteel 
conversational  tone.  "  So  yer  still  a-ridin'  that 
there  monkey  thing  ?  " 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Cutter?  Yes,  I  still 
ride  my  bicycle." 

"  Wai,  I  should  n't  think  yer  'd  do  it.  Ladies 
did  n't  do  sech  things  when  I  wuz  young." 

"  When  you  were  young,  Miss  Cutter !  "  ex- 
claimed Miss  Marvin  with  a  fine  show  of  surprise. 
"  Why,  you  're  young  now,  are  n't  you  ?  " 

Miss  Cutter  chuckled  in  self-satisfaction. 

"  Wai,  I  ain't  ser  old  ez  I  might  be,"  she  re- 


190  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

plied.  "  But 's  I  wuz  sayin',  we  did  n't  ride  none 
er  them  things  in  those  days.  When  I  wuz  — 
younger  than  I  be  now  —  we  rode  a-horseback,  'n' 
the  horses  had  nice,  long  tails  a-droopin'  behind, 
and  we  wore  sweepin'  habits  'n'  looked  like  ladies. 
But  them  monkey  things !  I  would  n't  git  on  to 
one  uv  'em  fer  nothin'." 

"Wouldn't  you? "laughed  Miss  Marvin.  "I 
believe  you  would  if  you  had  a  chance.  I  would  n't 
dare  to  leave  my  wheel  down  here  overnight  for  fear 
you  would  be  out  here  practicing  on  it  after  dark." 

Miss  Cutter  was  easily  flattered,  and  any  impli- 
cation that  she  was  sprightly  pleased  her  very  well. 

"  Wai,  now,"  she  chuckled,  "  I  be  kinder  spry 
fer  one  er  my  years.  The  dar-tory  says  ter  me  th' 
other  day,  '  Miss  Cutter,'  he  says,  '  yer  younger  'n 
I  be.'  That 's  when  I  chased  them  young  Eye- 
talians  away  from  my  ash  barr'l.  Oh,  them  Eye- 
talians  plagues  me  so !  But  here  comes  Miss 
Henrietta  Terrell,  a-walkin'  like  a  young  rooster 
on  ice.  Thinks  she  's  light  on  her  feet.  Ha  !  ha  ! 
ha !  Guess  I  'd  better  go  inside.  I  always  sass 
Miss  Terrell." 

Only  once  more  did  Miss  Cutter  encounter  the 
managers  of  St.  Luke's  as  they  gathered  that 
morning  for  their  meeting.  One  of  the  ladies 
was  especially  interested  in  introducing  missionary 


A  MEETING  OF  THE  LADY-BOARD       191 

methods  into  the  work  of  the  dispensary,  and  Miss 
Cutter,  having  become  aware  of  the  fact  in  some 
mysterious  way,  lost  no  opportunity  of  ridiculing 
the  idea. 

"  Hi,  there,  Mis'  Lawrence ! "  she  called. 
"  What  d'  yer  s'pose  happened  ter  the  office  yes- 
terday afternoon  ?  " 

Mrs.  Lawrence  stopped  with  a  look  of  resigna- 
tion upon  her  face.  She  had  known  Miss  Cutter 
for  several  years,  but  she  never  felt  quite  sure 
what  the  old  woman  would  say  next. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  asked,  patiently. 

"  What  should  it  be  but  that  there  singin'  woman 
from  the  mission !  First  I  knew,  two  young  fellers 
come  a-luggin  'a  leetle,  weenty  organ  up  the  hill 
'n'  then  the  singin'  woman  come  in  her  be-u-tiful 
trailin'  robes  V  that  want-ter-be-an-angel  face  er 
hers.  'N'  she  sung  ter  them  Eye-talians !  I  went 
along  ter  hear." 

"Did  you?" 

"  Yes,  'n'  's  I  stood  there,  I  thought  a  lot.  I 
thinks,  thinks  I,  '  What  good  's  that  singin'  goin' 
ter  do  them  heathen  ?  '  'N'  then  I  thought  it  over. 
I  've  got  a  real  sore  toe ;  hurts  worse  sometimes 
than  others.  But  when  I  was  a-listenin'  ter  that 
there  mission  woman  'n'  she  sung  higher  'n'  higher, 
I  kep'  a-risin'  'n'  a-risin'  higher  on  to  my  toes  "  — 


192          THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

she  suited  action  to  her  words  and  her  voice  soared 
into  the  upper  register  — "  V  by  V  by  I  clean 
f ergot  all  'bout  my  sore  toe." 

"  That  was  a  good  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Lawrence, 
smiling  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  'N'  then,"  went  on  Miss  Cutter,  "  I  knew  what 
good  that  singin'  woman  did.  She  made  them 
Eye-talians  fergit  their  aches  V  pains.  Only," 
she  added,  facetiously  poking  her  listener  with  her 
long  finger,  "  '  only,'  thinks  I  ter  myself,  '  she  '11 
spoil  the  dar-tory's  business.'  Ha !  ha  !  ha  !  " 

"  Did  you  ever  know  a  queerer  woman  than  that 
Miss  Cutter  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Lawrence,  as  she  en- 
tered the  dispensary. 

"Never,"  said  Miss  Marvin.  "What  has  she 
been  saying  now  ?  " 

"  Nothing  worth  repeating.  What  she  says  sel- 
dom amounts  to  anything.  It  is  the  way  she  says 
it." 

"  She  told  me  one  day  that  she  supposed  the 
fees  of  the  dispensary  went  a  good  ways  toward 
paying  the  wages  of  what  she  termed  my  '  stuck- 
up  '  coachman,"  said  Mrs.  Stebbins. 

"  She  always  says  kind  things  to  me,"  purred 
Miss  Terrell.  "  She  looked  out  one  day,  and 
when  she  saw  me,  she  exclaimed,  '  How  tall !  And 
how  spry ! ' ' 


A  MEETING  OF  THE  LADY-BOARD       193 

Miss  Marvin  turned  away  to  hide  her  smile. 
She  could  imagine  just  how  Miss  Cutter  said  it. 

"  I  wonder  what  she  would  have  been  if  she  had 
not  lived  this  solitary  life  among  foreigners,"  said 
Mrs.  Lawrence. 

"  You  might  as  well  wonder  what  effect  the 
kindergarten  would  have  had  upon  the  Artful 
Dodger,"  laughed  Miss  Marvin.  "  Miss  Cutter  is 
what  she  is,  and  I  cannot  possibly  imagine  her 
otherwise." 

When  the  ladies  had  made  their  monthly  inspec- 
tion of  the  office  and  waiting  room,  they  took  up 
the  business  of  the  morning.  The  chief  feature 
was  the  consideration  of  a  plan  to  offer  Burroughs 
a  permanent  position  at  the  dispensary  after  he 
was  graduated  from  the  medical  school. 

"  I  say  yes,"  said  Miss  Marvin,  in  the  general 
discussion.  "One  of  the  hindrances  to  success- 
ful work  here  has  been  that  we  have  had  a  fre- 
quent change  of  internes.  If  we  can  offer  Mr. 
Burroughs  an  adequate  salary,  I  should  certainly 
advise  that  we  make  an  effort  to  retain  him." 

"  So  far  as  I  can  learn,"  said  Mrs.  Lawrence, 
"  his  work  has  been  conscientious  and  successful." 

"  Oh,  there  is  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  that," 
exclaimed  Miss  Terrell.  "I  have  frequently  ac- 
companied Mr.  Burroughs  on  his  professional 


194  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

visits,  and  he  has  great  judgment  and  kindness. 
I  could  not  do  better  with  those  people  myself." 

"  I  do  not  believe  you  could !  "  mused  Miss 
Marvin,  communing  with  herself. 

Miss  Terrell  uttered  a  reminiscent  laugh. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  with  up-tilted  eye, 
and  a  smile  which  was  supposed  to  be  very  coy, 
"  one  of  the  Italian  women  thought  that  I  was  Mr. 
Burroughs's  wife,  and  the  strange  part  of  it  was, 
he  did  not  seem  to  mind." 

Nobody  replied. 

"The  strange  part  of  it  was,"  repeated  Miss 
Terrell,  "that  Mr.  Burroughs  did  not  seem  to 
mind  at  all." 

"  Madame  president  !  "  said  Miss  Marvin, 
sharply,  "  I  move  you  that  we  stick  to  the  subject 
in  hand." 

Miss  Terrell  cast  a  quick,  spiteful  look  at  Miss 
Marvin,  but  said  nothing  more. 

"  I  have  felt  all  the  year,"  said  Mrs.  Stebbins 
from  the  chair,  "  that  Mr.  Burroughs  is  thoroughly 
reliable.  I  have  had  the  feeling  that  if  I  made  a 
request  it  would  be  carried  out,  whether  I  came 
down  here  to  look  after  the  matter  or  not.  It  is 
worth  several  hundred  dollars  a  year  to  have  such 
a  man  in  charge  of  the  work." 

"Doctor  Hereford,  at  the  medical  school,  says 


A  MEETING  OF  THE  LADY-BOARD       195 

that  Mr.  Burroughs  is  very  careful  in  his  practice ; 
is  always  willing  to  take  advice,  and  to  call  for  aid 
when  he  feels  in  doubt.  Medical  students  are  not 
always  like  that."  Miss  Grant  said  this,  and  her 
words  had  weight,  for  she  was  a  large  contributor 
to  the  support  of  the  dispensary. 

"  And  best  of  all,"  went  on  Miss  Marvin,  "  the 
people  are  fond  of  him.  We  need  to  look  in  the 
squalid  homes  about  here  to  learn  Mr.  Burroughs's 
true  worth.  Have  you  talked  with  La  Signorina  ?  " 

"  I  have  done  so,"  said  Miss  Grant.  "  Her  tes- 
timony showed  me  conclusively  that  we  ought  to 
retain  Mr.  Burroughs  if  possible." 

"  Can  we  be  sure  that  La  Signorina's  word  is 
reliable  ?  "  Miss  Terrell  spoke  in  a  smooth,  soft 
voice,  which  nevertheless  impressed  her  hearers  as 
being  vindictive.  "  Italian  women  are  very  im- 
pressionable, you  remember." 

"Change  in  the  wind,"  mentally  commented 
Miss  Marvin,  while  Miss  Grant  replied  with  much 
feeling,  — 

"I  trust  La  Signorina  absolutely.  Her  devo- 
tion to  her  people  makes  her  estimate  of  a  co- 
worker  unimpeachable." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Miss  Terrell,  sweetly. 

The  matter  was  discussed  long  and  earnestly, 
and  the  result  of  the  conference  was  that  Bur- 


196  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

roughs  was  invited  to  become  resident  physician 
at  St.  Luke's  on  a  definite  salary.  He  was  sur- 
prised when  he  heard  of  the  decision,  and  was 
naturally  very  much  pleased  that  the  ladies  should 
wish  to  retain  his  services.  But  his  thoughts  were 
bent  upon  a  private  practice,  in  what  location  he 
had  not  yet  decided. 

He  had  often  thought,  as  he  plodded  through 
the  familiar  district,  that  when  he  was  gone  he 
would  miss  the  old  hill  with  its  picturesque  life 
and  varied  associations.  Now  when  the  oppor- 
tunity to  remain  was  given  him,  he  could  scarcely 
resist  the  temptation  to  accept  it.  Yet  he  felt  that 
he  owed  it  to  himself  to  put  the  result  of  his  long 
struggle  to  some  different,  perhaps  wider  use. 
Then,  too,  he  had  a  hope  which  he  knew  he  must 
not  entertain  if  he  stayed  in  the  dirt  and  noise  of 
Spring  Hill.  He  talked  the  matter  over  with  La 
Signorina.  The  work  of  St.  Luke's  was  her  hobby, 
and  she  mounted  and  galloped  away.  Her  enthu- 
siasm was  contagious,  and  for  a  time  Burroughs 
yielded  to  it.  Before  making  a  final  decision,  how- 
ever, he  resolved  to  consult  Doctor  Raymond. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
THE  DREAM  OF  A  HOME 

"Do  not  decide  until  you  have  seen  the  place 
I  've  picked  out  for  you,"  was  Raymond's  advice 
when  Burroughs  told  him  of  the  proposition  the 
Board  of  Managers  had  made.  "  The  ladies  have 
given  you  a  week  in  which  to  consider,  have  n't 
they?  Arrange  with  somebody  at  the  school  to 
take  your  clinic  day  after  to-morrow,  and  we  will 
go  out  and  look  over  the  ground." 

The  necessary  substitute  was  secured,  and  Ray- 
mond boarded  the  trolley  car  with  his  friend  in 
most  exuberant  spirits.  They  sat  on  the  front 
seat  like  eager  children.  It  was  a  two-hour  ride 
to  their  destination,  and  the  way  ran  by  fields  and 
woods,  valleys  and  hillsides.  Fruit  orchards  in 
full  bloom  scented  the  air  with  their  perfume ; 
there  was  a  haze  in  the  air  that  made  the  distant 
green  look  blue  ;  there  was  sunlight  through  the 
haze  that  glinted  like  gold  dust. 

"  At  Greenleigh  when  the  apple-trees 
Fling  all  their  sweetness  to  the  breeze, 


198  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

The  birds  sing  high,  the  birds  sing  low, 
Nestling  where  the  lilacs  grow, 
And  I  shall  see  my  love,  I  know  — 

At  Greenleigh  in  the  Springtime,"  — 

softly  sang  Raymond  in  his  friend's  ear  as  they 
sped  along. 

Burroughs  sat  alert  with  an  eager  look  of  expec- 
tancy in  his  face  ;  the  look  of  a  man  who  finds  a 
long  cherished  dream  coming  true,  yet  who  fears 
lest  he  shall  awake  before  the  vision  is  fulfilled. 

Now  and  then  they  waited  at  a  turnout  for  an- 
other car.  As  a  rule  these  sidetracks  are  located 
in  uninteresting  places ;  against  sand-banks  per- 
haps, or  opposite  barnyards  and  pigsties.  In  this 
case,  however,  the  two  men  beheld  visions  of 
meadows,  farmers  at  the  plough  or  birds  building 
their  nests  on  apple-trees  beyond  the  stone  walls. 

"  I  declare,  Burroughs,  you  've  grown  young 
since  we  started !  "  exclaimed  Raymond.  "  Those 
anxious  wrinkles  have  all  gone  and  you  look  more 
as  you  did  when  I  first  met  you  in  your  freshman 
year." 

"  That 's  because  I  'm  getting  some  good  oxygen 
into  my  lungs,"  explained  the  interne. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  old  man,"  continued 
Raymond,  "  you  've  been  looking  very  thin  lately 
and  need  a  change.  You  've  been  wonderfully 


THE  DREAM  OF  A  HOME  199 

good  to  those  Dagoes  and  have  done  a  great 
amount  of  night  study.  You  would  not  be  able  to 
keep  on  burning  the  candle  at  both  ends  much 
longer.  It 's  lucky  your  school  work  is  over." 

Burroughs  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"You  may  be  sure  I'm  glad.  It  has  been  a 
long  pull.  It  is  what  I  've  worked  for  since  I  was 
fifteen  years  old,  but  if  you  and  some  of  the  others 
had  n't  stood  by  me,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  should  ever 
have  made  the  run." 

Eaymond  turned  a  look  of  tender  regard  upon 
his  friend.  He  was  very  fond  of  this  quiet  perse- 
vering man  who  had  overcome  so  many  difficulties, 
yet  who  never  boasted  of  his  triumphs.  He  often 
wanted  to  say  pleasant  things  to  Burroughs,  but 
there  was  a  certain  dignity  about  the  younger  man 
at  such  times  that  made  Raymond's  words  of  praise 
sound  like  empty  flattery,  and  he  usually  broke 
down  in  the  middle  .of  his  adulations.  To-day  he 
seemed  better  able  to  choose  his  words  and  they 
rang  true. 

"  You  've  been  very  plucky,"  he  said.  "  I  envy 
you  your  courage.  You  deserve  the  softest  berth 
that  we  can  find  for  you.  Wait  till  we  have 
climbed  three  or  four  more  hills  and  see  what  I 
have  to  show  you." 

The  car  sped  on,  crossing  brooks,  pulling  more 


200  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

slowly  up  the  green  edges  of  hillside  pastures, 
sweeping  through  cool,  dim  vistas  of  balsam  groves 
until  at  length  it  emerged  upon  an  airy  upland 
overlooking  a  green  plain. 

"  Look  down  there,  old  man,"  said  Raymond, 
joyously. 

Burroughs  looked. 

The  long,  white  road  ran  down  before  him,  past 
prosperous  farmhouses  and  ample  barns.  Beyond, 
the  white  spire  of  a  country  church  rose  from 
clustering  roofs  and  feathery  treetops.  A  broad, 
still  stream  wound  through  the  valley,  —  a  silver 
ribbon  in  the  foreground,  a  glint  in  the  meadows 
beyond  the  village,  —  and  as  the  car  descended 
the  hill  and  approached  the  town,  Burroughs  could 
see  reeds  on  the  river  bank  blowing  in  the  wind, 
and  quick  dartings  of  swallows  among  old-fash- 
ioned chimneys. 

"  Will  this  do  ?  "  asked  Raymond,  softly. 

Burroughs  did  not  speak,  but  the  eyes  he  turned 
to  meet  his  friend's  gaze  shone  with  an  unwonted 
moisture. 

They  entered  the  village  street  with  much  clamor 
of  the  car  gong.  Pink-faced  children  waved  their 
hands  from  sunny  dooryards  —  clean  children,  who 
looked  as  if  they  had  plenty  of  good  food  to  eat. 
There  were  sleek  dogs  with  shining  collars  which 


THE  DREAM  OF  A  HOME  201 

paced  to  and  fro  demurely  in  well-fed  content. 
Pretty  young  women  were  planting  geraniums  in 
neat  gardens.  Honest-faced  men  were  driving  fat 
ponies  leisurely  up  and  down  the  elm-arched  street. 
At  the  church  green  they  left  the  car  and  Bur- 
roughs looked  about  him  in  delight. 

"  It  was  good  of  you  to  look  this  up,  Walter," 
he  said. 

There  was  a  block  of  shops  with  the  post-office 
in  the  centre  ;  there  was  a  good  school-house  and 
a  town  hall.  In  the  centre  of  the  green  was  a 
band-stand,  and  beyond  the  parsonage  Burroughs 
saw  a  little  library  building  of  gray  stone.  The 
industries  of  the  town  were  south  of  the  main  street, 
Raymond  said,  near  the  railroad  station,  and  con- 
sisted of  two  factories  and  a  grist  mill.  Excepting 
the  factory  owners  and  their  employees,  the  people 
of  the  town  were  well-to-do  farmers. 

"  Now  first  of  all  we  must  have  some  dinner," 
said  Raymond,  "  then  we  will  go  to  see  the  butcher, 
the  baker,  and  the  candlestick  maker,  and  do  a 
little  feeling  round.  Hi !  hi !  "  he  added,  merrily, 
quoting  Miss  Cutter,  "  is  there  anything  the  mat- 
ter with  this?  And  it's  all  for  you,  Phil,  free- 
gratis,  for  nothing.  No  practice  to  buy  out,  no 
rival  to  contend  with.  All  you  '11  have  to  do  is  to 
hang  out  your  shingle  and  prove  your  merit." 


202  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

After  a  hearty  country  dinner,  Burroughs  sat  in 
a  huge  rush  rocker  on  the  hotel  piazza,  while  Ray- 
mond went  to  hire  a  horse  and  carriage  for  their 
afternoon  jaunt.  It  was  a  little  after  twelve  and 
the  sun-flecked  street  was  practically  deserted. 
Three  or  four  men  hurried  by  on  bicycles ;  a 
plump  boy  in  overalls  rode  an  old  white  horse 
over  to  the  watering-trough  and  worked  his  small 
body  up  and  down  in  unison  with  the  squeaking 
pump-handle.  When  his  steed  had  quenched  its 
thirst,  the  boy  disentangled  himself  from  the  pump 
handle  and  rode  off  under  the  shadow  of  the  elms. 
Then  a  drowsy  restfulness  fell  over  Burroughs's 
spirits ;  every  nerve  and  muscle  seemed  to  relax. 
The  church  door  stood  open  and  some  one  within 
was  playing  the  "  Priests'  March  "  very  softly  on 
the  organ ;  a  ground-sparrow  was  building  her 
nest  beside  the  hotel  porch.  Surely,  this  was  the 
place  Burroughs  had  seen  in  his  day  dreams  and 
the  vision  would  come  true  at  last. 

The  two  men  studied  the  situation  very  thor- 
oughly that  afternoon,  calling  upon  many  of  the 
leading  townspeople,  viewing  the  mansions  of  the 
prosperous,  examining  outlying  districts.  When 
their  research  was  complete,  Raymond  said,  — 

"  I  have  just  one  thing  more  to  show  you.  Here 
it  is." 


THE  DREAM   OF  A  HOME  203 

He  drew  rein  before  a  house  in  the  pleasant 
neighborhood  above  the  church.  It  was  a  little 
house  painted  white,  with  green  blinds.  A  wis- 
taria vine  ran  riot  over  the  porch  and  a  sturdy 
rose  tree  guarded  the  steps.  Two  elms  stood  in 
the  yard  at  one  side  and  under  their  boughs  there 
was  a  glimpse  of  meadows  and  a  long,  undulating 
line  of  far  blue  hills. 

"  How  is  this  ?  "  asked  Kaymond.  Burroughs 
could  not  speak. 

The  young  physician  had  once  told  Margaret 
Worthington  that  he  would  put  himself  to  a  good 
deal  of  trouble  in  order  to  see  that  quiet  gleam  of 
joy  which  came  into  Burroughs's  eyes  when  he  was 
happy.  The  look  had  been  there  all  day  and 
Raymond  was  satisfied. 

"  You  can  rent  this  house  very  reasonably,"  he 
said.  "  It  is  centrally  located,  as  you  see,  and  the 
neighborhood  is  all  right.  That  little  wing  with 
the  side  entrance  is  just  the  place  for  your  office  ; 
I  can  see  the  whole  thing  now  :  '  P.  M.  Burroughs, 
M.  D.,'  gold  letters  on  a  black  background,  and  a 
lantern  on  a  bracket  beside  the  door  for  evening 
use,  with  '  Doctor  Burroughs's  Office  '  painted  on 
the  glass." 

Still  Burroughs  did  not  speak,  but  his  eyes  were 
alight. 


204  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  You  have  some  old  auntie  or  somebody,  have 
n't  you,"  queried  Raymond,  "  who  would  be  willing 
to  come  here  and  keep  house  for  you  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  I  suppose  a  housekeeper  would  do." 

"  Just  exactly  as  well.  You  must  have  an  es- 
tablishment, for  it  gives  a  man  so  much  better 
footing  in  a  place.  You  see,  the  fellow  who  has 
just  left  here  lived  hi  lodgings  back  of  his  office  in 
the  block  and  took  his  meals  at  the  Railroad  House, 
opposite  the  depot.  People  were  a  little  afraid  of 
him  from  the  first,  and  when  they  found  him  hob- 
nobbing with  the  hostlers  and  playing  poker  with 
them,  they  froze  him  out  so  completely  that  he  de- 
parted for  regions  unknown.  Now,  if  you  come 
in  here  with  that  dead-in-earnest  face  of  yours  and 
go  to  housekeeping,  you  '11  be  received  with  open 
arms." 

"  It  could  not  be  more  attractive,"  said  Bur- 
roughs. "  I  '11  come  out  as  soon  as  I  pass  the 
State  examinations." 

"  And  if  you  need  funds  to  start  with,  Burroughs, 
you  know  on  whom  to  call,"  said  Raymond,  ear- 
nestly, "  and  you  can  take  your  own  time  about 
repaying  me." 

When  the  sky  was  turning  gold  and  the  shadows 
were  growing  long,  the  two  young  men  went  back 
to  the  city  by  train.  Raymond  was  hilarious, 


THE  DREAM  OF  A  HOME  205 

Burroughs  quietly  happy.  Before  the  city  lights 
gleamed  through  the  dusk,  Raymond  had  furnished 
the  little  white  house  and  had  laid  low  every  citi- 
zen of  the  village  with  some  critical  illness.  Bur- 
roughs enjoyed  the  plans,  but  he  was  less  intent 
upon  the  health  statistics  of  the  town  than  upon  a 
mental  picture  which  had  shaped  itself  as  he 
looked  at  the  cottage  Raymond  had  selected  for 
him.  This  picture  grew  momentarily  more  dis- 
tinct. Dared  he  hope  that  it  might  some  day  be- 
come a  reality?  What  Burroughs  saw  was  a 
glimpse  of  himself  advancing  cheerily  along  the 
elm-bowered  street.  He  carried  the  inevitable 
satchel,  the  badge  of  his  profession.  When  he 
reached  the  house  with  the  wistaria  vine  he  turned 
in  at  the  gate,  quickening  his  pace,  for  the  house 
door  stood  open  and  the  doorway  framed  a  lithe, 
graceful  figure,  and  a  beloved  face  which  smiled  a 
welcome  to  him.  And  that  and  that  alone  could 
make  home  for  him. 

Raymond  took  Burroughs  home  with  him  for 
dinner.  The  doctor's  mother  was  away  and  the 
two  men  dined  alone.  The  substantial  elegance  of 
Raymond's  cosy  library  had  never  appealed  to 
Burroughs  more  strongly  than  it  did  that  evening 
as  he  lounged  in  an  easy  chair  and  feasted  his  eyes 
upon  fine  pictures  and  well-filled  book  shelves. 


206  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

After  dinner  the  men  went  into  Raymond's  office 
and  made  careful  inventories  of  books  and  instru- 
ments without  which  Burroughs  could  not  begin 
his  practice.  Then  Raymond  took  out  his  guitar, 
and  so  serene  was  Burroughs's  mood  that  he  per- 
mitted his  friend  to  sing  "  Sweet  Rosy  O'Grady  " 
and  half  a  dozen  more  sentimental  ditties,  ending 
with  the  serenade  with  which  he  had  signaled  Ce- 
lestia  on  that  long-to-be-remembered  evening.  It 
was  but  a  short  step  from  serenades  to  sweethearts. 

"  Burroughs,  you  must  get  married." 

"  So  must  you.  What  about  that  affair  you 
were  talking  of  last  fall  ?  " 

"  That  did  not  turn  out  very  well,  Phil." 

"  I  'm  sorry." 

"Oh,  it  is  probably  just  as  well.  But  I  was 
rather  disappointed.  However,  that  has  nothing 
to  do  with  your  case.  You  must  get  married." 

"  That 's  out  of  the  question." 

"  No,  it  is  not.  Just  pick  out  some  nice  girl 
and  ask  her  to  marry  you.  I  never  saw  such  a 
fellow  for  not  caring  about  girls  !  " 

Burroughs  winced.  He  did  not  have  the  nervous 
habit  common  to  many  men  of  walking  up  and 
down,  when  tired  or  excited.  But  now  he  rose 
quickly  and  strode  to  and  fro. 

"  We  've  been  pretty  close  friends,  Walter,"  he 


THE  DREAM  OF  A  HOME  207 

said,  pausing  before  Raymond's  chair,  "  but  I  Ve 
never  told  you  about  Miss  Worthington.  The 
second  year  in  the  High  School,  we  sat  in  adjacent 
seats.  I  was  the  butt  of  considerable  ridicule  be- 
cause I  was  poor.  The  girls  all  called  me  '  that 
Burroughs  thing,'  and  joked  because  my  collars 
were  threadbare.  But,"  with  a  sudden  burst  of 
energy,  "  they  were  clean  ;  my  mother  saw  to  that. 
I  was  growing  very  fast  then,  and  my  arms  and 
legs  stuck  out  beyond  my  clothes  several  inches  too 
far  for  elegance.  I  had  only  one  suit.  I  shall 
never  forget  it.  It  had  been  brown,  but  was  faded 
to  a  dirty  yellow.  Among  other  tasks  I  worked 
in  a  grocery  store  out  of  school  hours,  and  some- 
times I  tore  my  clothes  on  cases  and  barrels,  so 
that  before  the  winter  was  over  the  suit  looked 
pretty  bad  in  spite  of  all  my  mother's  mending. 
Life  would  have  been  an  absolute  burden  to  me  if 
it  had  n't  been  for  Margaret.  She  saw  how  it  cut 
me  to  be  made  sport  of,  and  she  took  pains  to  be 
nice  to  me.  In  fact,  she  loved  me.  I  adored  her 
then  and  I  adore  her  still.  Her  feelings  toward  me 
have  not  changed,  but  she  is  beyond  my  reach." 

Raymond  heard  his  friend  with  quickening  pulse. 
By  a  sudden  enlightenment,  he  understood  many 
things  which  had  not  been  clear  to  him  before. 
He  remembered  with  a  thrill  that  handclasp  across 


208  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

Pastorelli's  marble-topped  table.  He  understood 
intuitively  the  strength  of  Burroughs's  devotion, 
and  his  own  attachment  to  Margaret  seemed  a  very 
feeble  thing.  With  a  delicacy  born  of  his  affec- 
tion for  his  friend  he  said,  — 

"  Margaret's  eyes  are  very  beautiful  at  all  times, 
but  I  have  noticed  that  they  are  never  more  so 
than  when  I  am  speaking  to  her  of  you." 

Then  after  a  silence  made  potent  by  the  current 
of  sympathetic  appreciation  which  needed  no  ex- 
pression in  words,  he  said,  — 

"  You  could  not  expect  her  father  to  consent  to 
your  marriage  if  you  stay  at  St.  Luke's." 

"  I  would  never  ask  her  to  share  such  a  life  with 
me." 

"  That 's  where  the  man  in  you  speaks.  There 
are  plenty  of  fellows  so  self-satisfied  that  they 
think  any  girl  ought  to  be  proud  to  go  with  them 
to  the  Fiji  Islands.  Now,  Burroughs,  you  've 
done  some  heavy  sledding  and  you  must  convince 
yourself  that  it  is  over  for  a  long  time.  You  de- 
serve a  great  deal  of  happiness.  You  deserve  to 
have  Miss  Worthington  for  your  wife  and  I  be- 
lieve that  you  can  have  her.  At  the  end  of  a  year 
or  two,  when  you  are  as  prosperous  as  I  know  you 
will  be,  Margaret's  father  will  be  proud  to  have 
you  for  a  son-in-law.  Just  believe  that.  And  con- 


THE  DREAM  OF  A  HOME  209 

vince  yourself,  too,  that  a  girl  like  Miss  Worthing- 
ton  will  never  give  up  a  thing  she  has  set  her  heart 
upon.  I  know  that  if  she  loves  you,  all  the  fathers 
in  the  world  will  never  hold  you  apart  forever.  I 
shall  take  occasion  to  call  at  the  house  to-morrow 
and  you  may  trust  me  to  see  that  your  prospects 
are  fully  set  forth  ;  not  too  unctuously,  of  course, 
but  judiciously.  I  '11  manage  it." 

"  You  're  a  trump,  Raymond !  " 

"  Oh,  no ;  just  an  easy-going  rascal  who  never 
had  anything  in  the  world  to  bother  him.  Some- 
times I  wish  I  had  had  your  scramble.  It  would 
have  made  more  of  a  man  of  me." 

"  Never  wish  that,  Walter.  That  sort  of  a  life 
puts  a  hardness  into  a  man  that  he  would  give 
worlds  to  be  rid  of.  Why,  I  am  so  used  to  work 
that  I  don't  half  know  how  to  play  when  I  have 
the  chance.  I  envy  you  a  dozen  times  a  day.  You 
are  handsome,  graceful,  light-hearted.  It  makes 
people  happy  just  to  see  you  around." 

"  Your  characterization  would  apply  with  equal 
force  to  a  good-natured  puppy  dog,"  answered 
Eaymond,  lightly.  "  One  thing  is  sure ;  there  is 
one  person  in  this  city  to  whom  the  mere  thought 
of  you  brings  more  happiness  than  a  lifetime's 
association  with  me  could  bring.  I  know  this, 
Phil,  because  she  has  refused  me." 


210  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  My  dear  Raymond !  " 

Burroughs  went  back  to  St.  Luke's  that  evening 
with  a  heart  so  light  that  he  seemed  to  be  walking 
on  air.  Electricians  were  festooning  the  church 
and  the  square  with  incandescent  lamps  prepara- 
tory to  the  carnival  to  be  given  the  following  even- 
ing in  honor  of  a  visiting  bishop.  Burroughs 
took  very  little  notice  of  the  work ;  he  hardly  saw 
the  chattering  crowds ;  he  did  not  mind  the  odors 
or  the  dirt ;  he  was  no  longer  a  part  of  the  hys- 
terical life  of  the  district.  St.  Luke's  and  the 
poor  Italian  people  were  a  receding  vision.  Quiet, 
decency,  normal  living,  and  Margaret ;  these  were 
before  him.  He  was  coming  to  the  end  of  the 
long,  anxious  struggle  begun  in  boyhood.  He 
went  to  his  desk  in  the  office  intending  to  write  to 
the  Board  declining  their  offer.  Then  he  decided 
to  wait  a  day  or  two,  in  order  to  avoid  undigni- 
fied haste.  To-morrow  he  would  announce  his  ap- 
proaching departure  and  prepare  his  clientele  for 
a  new  interne.  Then  would  come  the  graduation 
and  State  examinations  —  and  then  life ! 

Thus  for  hours  he  sat  dreaming,  while  beyond 
the  city's  farthest  suburb,  the  little  white  house 
with  a  rose  tree  at  the  doorstone  awaited  his  com- 
ing, and  the  village  in  the  river  valley  slept  in 
quiet  under  the  splendid  stars. 


CHAPTER  XX 
THE  PLOT  IN  THE  ALLEY 

THE  excitement  connected  with  Celestia's  elope- 
ment had  died  away.  Barone  took  his  bride  to 
her  new  home,  and  through  the  kindness  of  friends 
she  secured  a  good  position  as  soloist  in  one  of  the 
churches.  Peace  was  apparently  restored  in  all 
quarters.  Only  Scarabini,  working  vainly  to  re- 
gain his  hold  upon  the  poor  people,  nursed  his 
grudge  against  the  American  doctor.  It  would 
have  been  quite  useless  for  a  hundred  of  Scara- 
bini's  countrymen,  or  even  Celestia  herself,  to  at- 
tempt to  convince  the  Italian  that  Burroughs  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  elopement.  His  mind  was 
made  up  that  the  interne  at  St.  Luke's  had  been 
the  chief  conspirator,  and  that  all  his  bad  luck,  in 
love  as  well  as  in  business,  came  from  Burroughs. 

One  day,  on  the  street  where  Guido  Mascaro 
lived,  Scarabini  saw  old  Bettina,  a  troop  of  chil- 
dren at  her  heels,  making  her  way  along  the  side- 
walk. The  children  were  hooting  and  throwing 
bits  of  garbage  at  her  and  making  taunting  ges- 


212  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

tures.  Now  and  then  she  turned  savagely  and 
struck  at  them  with  her  lean,  brown  hand.  They 
would  dodge  the  blows  and  redouble  their  jeers. 
Laughing  women  leaned  out  of  their  windows 
watching  the  sport,  which  lasted  until  the  old  wo- 
man reached  her  own  doorway.  Then  she  turned 
and  faced  the  impudent  youngsters,  shrieking 
maledictions  and  threatening  to  tear  their  eyes  out 
if  they  came  any  nearer. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  that  old  woman?" 
Scarabini  inquired  of  a  young  fellow  who  stood 
smoking  at  the  door  of  his  shop. 

"  Oh,  she  tells  fortunes  and  they  no  longer  come 
true.  She  told  a  fortune  to  my  wife  last  week,  and 
how  false  it  was  !  They  say  she  has  a  devil  and 
has  lost  her  power  to  read  the  stars  because  she 
hates  that  American  doctor,  who,  as  all  the  world 
knows,  is  under  the  especial  protection  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin." 

"  That  American  pig  is  not  beloved  by  the  Vir- 
gin," sneered  Scarabini.  "  I  know  him  well.  He 
means  not  kindness  to  you  people.  There  is  mis- 
chief behind  his  smile." 

The  grocer  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  know  nothing  of  that,"  he  said.  "  I  know 
only  that  he  did  save  the  life  of  Mascaro's  Maria 
when  Bettina's  old  woman  was  too  drunk  to  see 


THE  PLOT  IN  THE  ALLEY  213 

straight.  I  only  hear  how  good  was  he  to  Reg- 
gerio's  Amadeo  who  fell  out  of  the  window  — 
peace  to  the  poor  little  innocent,"  and  he  crossed 
himself  devoutly. 

"  But  he  did  not  save  the  boy's  life,"  went  on 
Scarabini,  vindictively. 

"  And  how  could  he  ?  "  asked  the  grocer,  with 
asperity.  "  The  poor  child  fell  so  far  that  he  was 
all  spoiled  inside.  Only  the  blessed  saints  could 
have  made  him  live,  and  they  willed  otherwise." 

"  You  may  be  sure  they  did,  when  they  saw  the 
American  at  work,"  growled  Scarabini,  turning  on 
his  heel. 

The  young  grocer  watched  the  ill-tempered  Ital- 
ian as  he  went  down  the  street.  Then  with  one 
of  the  inimitable  and  very  expressive  gestures  of 
his  race,  he  said,  aloud,  — 

"  Go,  my  fine  gentleman !  I  know  who  you  are. 
There  are  many  crosses  in  the  cemetery  for  which 
you  will  sweat  in  Purgatory.  I  want  neither  your 
medicine  nor  your  fine  words  !  " 

In  her  rage  against  Burroughs  for  defeating  her 
when  little  Guido  was  born,  Bettina  had  undone 
herself.  In  the  past  she  had  enjoyed  a  certain 
notoriety  as  a  fortune  teller,  but  she  had  grown  so 
sulky  through  dwelling  on  her  defeat,  that  her 
prognostications  lacked  their  former  flavor  of  op- 


214  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

timism,  and  very  naturally  nobody  cared  to  pay 
for  revelations  of  a  future  full  of  bad  luck.  Then 
her  friend  and  ally,  La  Levatrice,  had  died  under 
unfavorable  conditions.  The  coroner  rendered  a 
verdict  of  "  alcoholism,"  but  the  denizens  of  the 
street  knew  that  she  drank  herself  to  death,  and 
they  scorned  the  big -sounding  American  word 
which  none  of  them  understood.  After  that  Bet- 
tina  grew  more  and  more  moody.  Maria  was 
afraid  of  her,  and  would  not  let  her  touch  the 
baby.  Guido  ordered'  his  mother  to  stay  in  the 
shop  and  leave  his  wife  in  peace.  Then  he  would 
jeer  at  her  relentlessly,  now  and  then  shaking  in 
front  of  her  an  especially  fine  bunch  of  radishes, 
or  an  exceptionally  long  sausage,  with  the  infor- 
mation that  he  was  going  to  make  a  present  to 
the  American  doctor.  So  Bettina  sat  by  the  hour 
musing  on  her  grievances,  muttering  incoherently 
the  while,  until  the  report  became  current  that  she 
was  possessed  of  a  devil,  and  scarcely  a  child  save 
Capotosti's  Gracia  dared  venture  inside  the  shop 
while  she  was  there.  Out  in  the  sunshine  it  was 
different.  The  sun  is  the  child's  friend,  and  in  its 
light  he  hopes  and  dares  a  thousand  things.  When 
Bettina  went  abroad,  she  ran  a  gauntlet  of  ridicule 
from  the  children,  which  she  knew  only  reflected 
the  opinions  of  the  older  people. 


THE  PLOT  IN  THE  ALLEY  215 

On  the  day  that  Burroughs  and  Kaymond  took 
their  trip  into  the  country,  Bettina  strode  swiftly 
up  Spring  Hill  Street.  Her  gold  earrings,  with 
pendants  the  size  and  shape  of  half-dollar  pieces, 
swayed  violently  as  she  stalked  along.  She  was 
smarting  from  an  encounter  with  some  of  her 
neighbors,  and  was  frantic  with  rage.  Stopping 
before  St.  Luke's,  she  examined  the  front  of  the 
building,  her  fishy  eyes  alert  with  hate.  Then  she 
shook  her  fist  at  the  doorway,  and  muttered  an 
imprecation.  By  this  time  Miss  Cutter's  head  was 
out  of  the  window.  As  the  interne  was  away,  and 
La  Signorina  was  making  calls,  the  old  woman 
felt  responsible  for  the  welfare  of  the  dispensary. 

"  Hi,  there,  you  old  Dago-woman !  "  she  cried. 
"What 're  yer  shakin'  yer  fist  at  the  dar-tory's 
house  fer  ?  " 

Old  Bettina  stopped,  and  flashed  an  angry  look 
at  her  interrogator.  She  did  not  understand  Eng- 
lish, but  Miss  Cutter's  tone  conveyed  an  entirely 
obvious  meaning. 

"  You  dirty  old  woman ! "  she  returned,  in 
Sicilian,  "  mind  your  own  business ! " 

"I  don't  understand  a  word  yer  say,"  piped 
Miss  Cutter,  "  'n'  I  don't  want  ter,  neither.  But 
yer  'd  better  stop  a-shakin'  yer  fist  at  the  dar-tory's 
house,  er  I  '11  set  the  cop  on  to  yer." 


216  THE  HEART   OF  THE  DOCTOR 

Then  she  rushed  out  to  the  sidewalk,  and  con- 
tinued the  battle  at  shorter  range.  So  fixed  a 
habit  was  it  in  the  Spring  Hill  district  to  thrust 
the  head  out  of  the  window,  that  Raymond,  in 
remarking  upon  the  phenomenon,  had  once  told 
Burroughs  that  a  stag  at  gaze  would  be  the  proper 
crest  of  any  family  in  the  region  who  entertained 
heraldic  aspirations.  As  the  tones  of  the  two  old 
women  grew  shriller,  windows  were  raised  and 
interested  faces  were  put  forth.  Some  boys,  who 
had  played  truant  from  school  that  day,  drew  near, 
charmed  by  the  prospect  of  a  fight,  while  Brady 
and  his  companions  came  to  the  graveyard  fence 
and  peeped  between  the  bars  in  great  delight. 
Spring  Hill  Street  was  "  at  gaze."  A  young  man 
sauntered  up  the  street,  and  paused  on  the  edge  of 
the  circle  which  surrounded  the  angry  women. 
Bettina  was  dancing  up  and  down,  shrieking  her- 
self purple  in  the  face,  while  Miss  Cutter  pranced 
forward  and  back,  waving  her  hands  in  scorn,  and 
crying,  — 

"  I  don't  understand  a  word  yer  say,  V  I  don't 
want  ter,  neither." 

The  newcomer  stepped  up  to  her. 

"  She  says,"  he  explained,  "  that  she  will  break 
that  doctor's  neck,  if  she  can  get  hold  of  him." 

"  She  will,  will  she  !     Wai,  she  won't.     D'  yer 


THE  PLOT  IN  THE  ALLEY  217 

hear  me,  yer  old  Dago-woman  ?  D'  yer  hear  what 
I  say  ?  He 's  too  fine  er  feller  f er  you  ter  's  much 
as  lay  yer  finger  on  to." 

"  She  says,"  translated  the  man,  turning  to  Bet- 
tina,  "  that  you  are  a  dirty  old  dog,  too  vile  to  eat 
the  doctor's  leavings." 

Bettina  howled.  Then  the  words  spluttered 
from  her  thin  lips. 

"  She  says,"  went  on  the  self-appointed  inter- 
preter in  English,  "  that  the  American  doctor  has 
made  her  the  laughing  stock  of  her  neighbors.  No 
one  will  buy  her  herbs  or  her  love-potions." 

"  'N'  it 's  mighty  good  they  don't,"  shrilled  Miss 
Cutter. 

"  This  woman  says  your  nasty  old  hands  would 
poison  the  herbs,"  said  the  man,  turning  to 
Bettina. 

There  seemed  to  be  danger  that  the  old  woman 
would  fall  in  a  fit. 

"And,"  continued  this  mischief-maker,  "she 
says  that  the  American  doctor  has  told  all  the 
people  that  you  are  a  witch." 

"  Cheese  it,  cheese  it !  —  the  cop  !  "  cried  one 
of  the  boys,  beginning  to  run. 

The  interpreter  glanced  hastily  down  the  street, 
and  drew  out  of  the  crowd.  Bettina  stopped  scold- 
ing, and  started  rapidly  for  home.  By  the  time 


218  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

the  police  officer  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  the 
boys  had  vanished,  Brady  and  his  friends  were  over 
on  the  other  side  of  the  burying  ground,  and  not  a 
head  was  to  be  seen  at  any  of  the  windows.  Miss 
Cutter  sat  in  her  usual  place.  She  was  compla- 
cently knitting ;  her  hands  were  steady,  and  her 
brow  unruffled. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Cutter,"  said  the  police- 
man, "  what 's  been  the  matter  up  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothin'  special,  'xcept  an  old  Dago-woman 
was  lyin'  about  the  doctor,  V  I  went  out  V  told 
her  to  go  on  home." 

The  officer  had  hurried  up  the  hill,  and  was 
very  warm.  He  removed  his  helmet  deliberately, 
wiped  the  band  within  its  rim  with  his  handker- 
chief, and  replaced  it  upon  his  head. 

"  You  don't  want  ter  have  no  trouble  with  them 
foreigners,  Miss  Cutter,"  he  said.  "  They  're  a 
dangerous  lot  when  they  get  started." 

"  Guess  I  know  that,"  replied  Miss  Cutter, 
promptly.  "  Have  n't  I  lived  on  this  here  hill 
sence  long  b'fore  you  wuz  born  ?  Can't  I  remem- 
ber when  there  were  n't  a  f  urriner  in  the  hull  dis- 
trict ?  Why,  Lor'  sakes  !  "When  I  moved  on  this 
street  your  folks  had  n't  ser  much  ez  thought  er 
leavin'  the  dear  old  Em'rald  Isle.  Ha  !  ha !  ha ! 
Guess  you  can't  tell  me  nothin'  about  furriners. 


THE  PLOT  IN  THE  ALLEY  219 

Good-day  ter  yer,"  and  she  shut  the  window  with 
a  bang. 

In  every  age  of  the  world's  history  there  have 
been  established  customs  for  the  termination  of 
interviews  and  the  dismission  of  guests.  Miss 
Cutter's  way  was  very  simple  ;  she  merely  slammed 
her  window.  There  were  advantages  in  this 
method,  not  the  least  of  which  being  that  it  gave 
the  old  dame  the  last  word. 

The  policeman  went  off  in  a  huff,  and  for  several 
minutes  Miss  Cutter  chuckled  over  her  own  clever- 
ness. Her  wrath  at  Bettina  was  not  appeased, 
however.  The  Sicilian  woman's  insulting  conduct 
to  the  beloved  "  dar-tory  "  rankled  in  her  breast. 

"  'N'  ter  have  had  that  runner  fer  the  Spanish 
doctor  hear  her,  too  !  "  she  mused.  "  They  say  he  's 
none  too  fond  er  Doctor  Burroughs." 

When  Scarabini  was  safely  off  Spring  Hill 
Street,  he  started  after  Bettina  at  a  rapid  pace, 
overtaking  her  opposite  a  blind  alley. 

"  See  !  "  he  said  in  Sicilian,  tapping  her  on  the 
shoulder.  "  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

He  drew  her  into  the  alley  and  addressed  her 
with  an  air  of  great  dignity  and  authority. 

"  Now,  old  woman,  I  think  we  are  of  one  mind 
about  that  American  cub.  Can  you  hold  your 
tongue  ?  " 


220  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  Yes,  signore,"  muttered  Bettina. 

"  He  has  spoiled  my  trade  and  made  people  hate 
me." 

"  It  is  the  same  with  me,  signore." 

"Therefore  I  would  gladly  spoil  his  pretty 
face"— 

"  Spoil  his  face  !  "  interrupted  Bettina,  angrily. 
"  Spoil  his  face !  Why  is  the  signore  so  weak  ?  I 
would  gladly  run  a  knife  into  him  !  " 

"  Perhaps  I  would,  also,"  said  Scarabini,  scorn- 
fully. "  But  it  does  not  follow  that  I  will  tell  to 
a  silly  old  woman  all  I  have  in  mind.  For  ruining 
my  work  I  would  like  to  cut  his  nose  off.  For 
something  else  which  I  will  not  tell  you,  I  would 
do  more,  much  more." 

"  Signore,"  said  Bettina,  cringingly,  and  bending 
over  the  young  man's  hand,  "  let  us  work  together. 
See  !  I  kiss  your  hand.  I  am  your  slave.  For  a 
long  time  I  have  no  rest,  for  all  the  people  hate 
me  and  despise  my  counsels.  They  come  no  more 
to  me  for  horoscopes.  I  am  undone,  I  am  broken- 
hearted, and  it  is  all  because  of  that  American. 
What  shall  I  do  to  help  you  ?  How  shall  we  be 
rid  of  this  pest?" 

"  Now  you  are  talking  like  a  wise  woman,"  said 
Scarabini,  with  one  of  his  blandest  professional 
smiles.  "  We  will  be  friends.  Yes !  Swear  you 


THE  PLOT  IN  THE  ALLEY  221 

will  keep  silent ;  swear  to  me  on  this,"  and  he 
pulled  a  small  dagger,  double-edged  and  keen, 
from  its  sheath  in  his  pocket. 

Bettina  took  the  weapon  solemnly  and  laid  the 
bright  blade  against  her  breast. 

"I  swear  by  the  Holy  Mother  of  God,"  she 
said,  "  by  Saint  Peter  and  Saint  Paul  and  by  thee, 
blessed  Saint  Rosalia  of  Sicily,  that  I  will  hide  in 
my  heart  all  the  words  of  the  kind  signore.  I  am 
at  his  feet.  I  am  his  slave." 

"  If  you  fail  to  keep  this  promise,"  said  Scara- 
bini,  hanging  over  her,  sternly,  "  may  the  sharp 
knife  turn  its  point  into  your  heart." 

"  May  the  sharp  knife  turn  its  point  into  my 
heart,"  echoed  Bettina. 

"  Good !  "  exclaimed  Scarabini,  putting  the  sti- 
letto into  his  pocket.  "  I  will  see  you  soon  again. 
And  remember !  One  word  of  this  and  they  '11 
find  your  skinny  old  body  in  the  dump  heap  be- 
hind the  slaughter  house.  Go  now,  and  be  in 
haste!" 


CHAPTER  XXI 

AN  EAVESDROPPER  IN  CHINATOWN 

IT  was  a  little  after  eight  o'clock  on  the  evening 
of  the  next  day.  In  the  basement  of  a  house  in 
Chinatown  two  men  sat  at  a  table  talking  earnestly. 
The  room  was  vaguely  lighted  by  the  feeble  yellow 
glow  of  a  dingy  lamp,  and  at  first  glance  appeared 
to  be  unoccupied  save  by  the  swarthy  faced  men  at 
the  table  and  by  the  proprietor  of  the  establish- 
ment who  crouched  near  the  barred  door,  watching 
his  guests  with  slant-eyed  craftiness. 

A  more  careful  inspection  would  have  shown  a 
pulse-quickening  horror  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
room,  where  squalid  human  beings  sprawled  on 
dilapidated  mattresses  in  an  opium-soaked  sleep. 

The  men  at  the  table  were  not  Americans.  The 
sharp  wits  of  the  Chinaman  told  him  that,  for  they 
talked  a  pyrotechnic  sort  of  language  very  different 
from  that  spoken  by  most  of  his  patrons.  They 
had  gleaming  black  eyes,  fierce  mustaches,  and 
wore  their  soft  hats  recklessly,  with  a  bit  of  red 
feather  sticking  in  the  band  of  each.  One  of  the 


AN  EAVESDROPPER  IN  CHINATOWN     223 

men  was  short ;  the  other  towered  fiercely  above 
the  board.  They  had  not  called  for  pipes,  nor  did 
they  wish  to  play  fan-tan.  Glasses  of  whiskey 
were  all  they  demanded,  and  their  conversation 
seemed  to  interest  them  more  than  their  drinks,  for 
they  sipped  leisurely,  but  talked  with  an  alarming 
strenuousness. 

"  To  business !  "  the  tall  man  said  in  Sicilian. 

"  Will  any  overhear  us  ?  "  asked  the  short  man 
in  the  same  dialect. 

"  Who  is  here  that  can  understand  ?  Not  that 
heathen,  yonder.  Not  those  pigs  in  the  corner." 

"  It  is  well.  Here,  then,  is  the  plan.  The  Count 
Scarabini  —  may  the  Virgin  protect  him  —  has 
long  been  tormented  by  a  certain  vile  American 
doctor.  This  dog  has  caused  the  people  to  hate 
our  serene  count,  so  that  now  he  can  do  no  busi- 
ness with  them.  His  fortunes  are  wrecked  and  his 
influence  is  destroyed. 

"  Moreover,  this  same  cursed  one  has  caused  the 
count  to  lose  his  beautiful  innamorata,  by  stealing 
her  from  her  father's  house  and  marrying  her  to 
a  filthy  Genovese.  All  this  cannot  be  forgiven. 
The  only  hope  for  our  great  enterprise  lies  in  the 
allegiance  of  the  lower  classes  to  our  count.  The 
lady  he  wished  to  wed  sings  like  an  angel,  and 
Signore  Scarabini  thought  to  send  her  to  Sicily  to 


224  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

win  the  favor  of  those  in  high  places  by  her 
heavenly  voice.  Now  all  is  ruined  by  that  figure 
of  a  pig." 

"  Peste  !  "  exclaimed  the  tall  one,  bringing  his 
heels  down  upon  the  floor  with  vibrating  force. 

The  sound  of  a  yawn  came  from  the  heap  of 
ragged  creatures  in  the  dim  corner. 

"  Hush  !  "  whispered  the  short  man,  seeming  to 
shrink  under  the  table.  "  You  have  wakened 
some  one." 

"  Craven  !  who  will  understand  you  ?  Hasten, 
or  I  will  depart." 

"  No,  I  pray  you.  I  was  not  frightened,  but 
this  is  serious  business." 

"  Go  on  with  it,  then." 

"  The  American  doctor  is  to  be  made  an  end  of 
to-night,  during  the  bishop's  carnival.  An  old 
woman  who  has  also  a  grudge  will  send  for  this 
pig-faced  Yankee  and  as  he  passes  through  a  dark 
street — zzt!  You  understand.  I  have  offered  to 
do  this  for  the  count,  but  he  will  have  no  one  do 
it  for  him.  He  will  have  his  vengeance  if  it  costs 
him  his  life.  It  is  my  part  to  wait  on  the  avenue 
with  a  cab  I  have  hired  and  our  noble  Scarabini 
will  ride  hither  in  safety,  while  his  escape  will  be 
covered  by  the  insane  screams  of  the  women  and 
the  running  to  and  fro  of  the  men." 


AN  EAVESDROPPER  IN  CHINATOWN     225 

"  Is  this  a  safe  place  ?  " 

"None  is  safer.  The  police  will  not  look  for 
an  Italian  among  the  China  people,  and  I  have 
money  enough  to  buy  that  heathen  yonder  twice  or 
thrice.  The  count  will  rest  secure  until  the  trains 
and  boats  are  no  longer  watched.  Then  he  will 
go  to  Italy  and  we  will  be  left  to  continue  his 
great  and  good  work." 

"  Is  it  well  to  kill  an  American  ?  I  have  been 
told  that  they  have  great  detectives  and  many 
policemen." 

"  Now  it  is  you  who  turns  craven !  There  is 
nothing  safer.  With  all  their  boastings,  these 
Americans  are  but  stupid  blunderers.  It  is  true, 
few  Italians  have  carried  their  quarrels  out  of  their 
own  circles,  but  few  have  had  so  great  cause  as 
Scarabini  has." 

"He  has  great  cause,  truly,  and  as  for  these 
Americans,  I  know  but  little  of  them.  It  is  but 
two  days  since  I  landed." 

The  short  man  took  out  his  watch. 

"  The  time  draws  near.  I  go.  Wish  for  me 
good  fortune  and  to  our  count  success." 

He  drained  his  glass  quickly  and  rose  to  his 
feet. 

"  It  is  not  hard,"  said  the  tall  man ;  "  one  thrust 
—  and  good-day !  " 


226  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

The  short  man  hurried  to  the  door. 

"  Farewell ;  and  the  blessed  saints  protect  you 
and  our  thrice  noble  count,"  said  his  companion. 

"Farewell,  The  American  will  be  summoned 
at  nine  o'clock,  and  if  heaven  favor  us,  all  will  be 
over  by  nine  and  a  quarter." 

The  Chinaman  let  him  out  and  the  other  man 
sat  in  meditation.  Then  another  yawn  from  the 
mattresses  broke  the  quiet.  Somebody  rolled  over, 
disentangling  himself  from  the  gratuitous  embraces 
of  his  companions,  blinked  blindly  for  a  moment, 
and  then  staggered  to  his  feet.  He  was  very  dizzy 
and  his  eyes  burned  like  coals,  but  his  brain  was 
clear  enough  to  have  understood  the  conversation 
which  had  been  held  in  a  dialect  learned  years  ago 
in  Sicily  and  made  familiar  by  recent  experiences 
in  the  Italian  quarter.  He  reeled  over  to  the 
table,  the  quivering  of  his  ragged  garments  reveal- 
ing how  weak  he  was.  The  dark-visaged  man 
glowered  at  him,  but  he  returned  the  look  with  a 
vacuous  smile  as  he  dropped  into  the  chair  just 
vacated. 

"  Good-morning,"  he  said  ;  "  this  is  a  fine  day." 

The  man  eyed  him  suspiciously,  muttered  "  No 
spe'k,"  and  went  on  sipping  his  whiskey.  The 
Chinaman  drew  near,  obsequiously,  ready  to  take 
an  order.  The  newly  awakened  man  called  for 


AN  EAVESDROPPER  IN  CHINATOWN     227 

liquor  and  counted  out  the  price.  When  he  had 
settled  his  account  he  had  three  cents  left.  He 
took  a  vial  from  the  pocket  of  his  dilapidated  coat 
and  poured  its  contents  into  the  glass  of  whiskey 
which  the  Chinaman  set  before  him.  The  glass 
shook  as  he  raised  it  to  his  lips  and  drained  the 
mixture  with  a  sort  of  fierce  earnestness.  Then  he 
rose  and  bowed  to  the  Sicilian  and  to  the  China- 
man. The  latter  slid  various  bolts  and  bars, 
opened  an  inner  door  of  sheet  iron  and  another  of 
stout  wood  and  let  him  emerge  upon  the  street. 

It  was  dark,  and  he  realized  then  that  it  was 
night  and  not  morning.  He  had  been  asleep  for 
thirty-six  hours.  Against  the  sky,  over  on  his  left, 
the  illuminated  face  of  the  clock  in  a  railroad  sta- 
tion showed  him  that  it  was  twenty-five  minutes  of 
nine.  He  was  over  two  miles  from  the  Italian 
quarter  and  the  only  strength  he  could  depend 
upon  was  to  be  gained  from  the  whiskey  and 
cocaine  he  had  just  drunk.  He  staggered  along 
with  swimming  head,  but  with  rapidly  clearing 
brain.  As  he  proceeded,  his  step  grew  steadier. 
As  the  time  grew  shorter  his  gait  became  more 
rapid  until,  when  he  reached  the  business  section 
of  the  city,  he  was  making  good  speed  toward  the 
Italian  district,  cutting  corners  and  dodging  lamp 
posts  like  a  man  with  all  his  faculties  alive.  He 


228  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

was  conscious  of  a  thankfulness  that  the  stimulants 
he  had  taken  were  standing  him  in  good  stead.  He 
had  been  a  little  fearful,  for  he  had  eaten  almost 
nothing  for  several  days  and  had  slept  only  by  the 
use  of  the  opium  pipe.  It  was  the  only  means  by 
which  he  could  secure  rest,  now. 

He  was  glad,  too,  as  he  hurried  through  the 
deserted  and  echoing  business  streets  that  so  few 
people  were  abroad.  His  errand  was  an  honest 
one,  yet  he  feared  to  be  detained  and  questioned. 
The  clock  on  the  Chamber  of  Commerce  chimed 
nine.  If  he  hurried,  he  would  be  on  Spring  Hill 
Street  in  fifteen  minutes.  He  began  to  run,  but 
soon  felt  a  contraction  about  the  heart,  and  found 
that  he  could  hardly  breathe.  He  dropped  back 
into  a  quick  walk,  hoping  almost  against  hope  that 
he  would  not  be  too  late.  At  length,  tenement 
houses  and  small  shops  showed  him  that  he  was 
upon  the  edge  of  the  Italian  district.  He  began  to 
run  again,  breathing  heavily,  yet  determined  not 
to  check  his  pace  until  his  goal  was  won.  His  way 
lay  through  Benediction  Alley  and  across  the 
square  of  Santa  Maria.  As  he  turned  into  the 
alley  he  could  see  gay  Chinese  lanterns  dancing  in 
the  wind  at  the  far  end  of  the  dark  vista.  Then 
he  caught  the  sound  of  martial  music.  His  breath 
was  failing  him ;  he  began  to  reel.  He  was  now 


AN  EAVESDROPPER  IN  CHINATOWN     229 

so  near,  and  yet  must  fail !  For  an  instant  he 
leaned  against  the  brick  wall  of  a  tenement,  try- 
ing to  compose  himself  for  the  final  rush  across 
the  square. 

Suddenly  something  in  front  of  him  caused  him 
to  spring  forward.  Then  youth  and  love,  lost 
dreams  and  pitiful  failures  leaped  out  of  the 
shadowy  past  and  confronted  him.  For  the  flash- 
light of  finality  made  all  things  plain. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  MAN 

IN  front  of  Guido's  shop  was  an  arc  lamp  and 
everything  near  it  was  in  high  light  or  dark 
shadow.  The  brick  tenements  sprang  out  of  the 
darkness  with  the  vivid  distinctness  of  houses  on 
the  stage,  their  window  shutters  throwing  long, 
sharp  shadows,  their  doorways  caverns  of  inky 
blackness.  Distorted  figures  of  loafing  men  zig- 
zagged across  the  sidewalks  and  even  the  curbings 
cast  sharp-cut  shadows  upon  the  pavement.  The 
wide  door  of  the  shop  was  open.  Within  was 
gloom,  save  where  old  Bettina,  squatting  on  the 
floor  in  the  glare  of  the  street  lamp,  stood  out  from 
the  background  of  shadow  like  a  figure  on  the  can- 
vas of  some  old  Florentine  painter.  The  warm 
tone  of  her  orange  headscarf,  the  softer  folds  of 
her  faded  brown  dress,  the  glint  of  her  earrings, 
and  the  vivid  green  of  the  indivia  she  was  sorting, 
completed  the  color  scheme  of  the  picture.  Her 
skinny  hands  were  very  deft  as  she  picked  over  the 
bunches  of  salad  which  would  be  peddled  on  the 


GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  MAN          231 

push-carts  next  day,  and  her  sharp,  restless  eyes, 
while  apparently  bent  unremittingly  on  her  work, 
missed  nothing  that  was  going  on  upon  the  street. 
The  bell  of  Santa  Maria  chimed  nine.  Capotos- 
ti's  Gracia  and  five  little  girls  from  the  next  street 
were  playing  "  Shir-di-lee  "  in  front  of  the  shop, 
and  danced  gayly  forward  and  back  as  their  shrill, 
resonant  voices  sang  — 

"  And  kiss  your  sweetheart,  shir-di-lee, 

Shir-di-lee,  shir-di-lee, 
And  kiss  your  sweetheart,  shir-di-lee, 
Upon  a  frosty  morning." 

Bettina  waited  until  the  game  had  run  its 
length ;  then  she  raised  her  head  and  called  stri- 
dently in  Sicilian,  — 

"  Gracia,  thou  imp,  run  to  the  American  doctor. 
Say  that  the  Maria  of  my  Guido  is  suddenly  ill. 
Go  quickly  and  I  will  give  thee  a  radish  for  thy 
trouble." 

Gracia  glanced  up  to  see  that  the  old  woman 
was  in  earnest,  and,  being  satisfied  with  the  genu- 
ineness of  the  offer,  she  darted  off. 

"  That  will  bring  him,"  muttered  Bettina.  "  He 
loves  well  Maria  and  the  baby." 

Then  she  bent  over  her  work  again.  A  young 
man  wearing  a  pince-nez  stepped  out  of  the  shadow. 
Bettina  sprang  to  her  feet. 


232  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  Signore,"  she  whispered  eagerly,  catching  him 
by  the  arm,  "  the  blessed  saints  attend  you.  When 
you  wait  in  the  shadow  on  the  alley,  let  him  pass 
you.  If  the  chance  is  good  in  the  dark  "  —  she 
made  a  quick  and  suggestive  gesture.  "  If  not, 
wait  till  he  comes  hither.  It  would  be  a  great  joy 
to  me  to  see  him  writhe,  but  it  will  bring  a  bad 
name  on  our  house." 

"  I  know  all  this !  "  growled  Scarabini.  "  Let 
me  go,  you  old  hag !  "  He  pulled  himself  loose 
from  her  grasp  and  started  to  leave  the  shop. 

"  Signore !  Signore !  "  said  Bettina  in  a  loud 
whisper. 

Scarabini  came  back  and  bent  his  head  toward 
Bettina  to  catch  her  words. 

"  Take  care  you  do  not  hit  yourself  with  the 
dagger,  for  I  have  poisoned  it.  And,  signore,  for 
the  love  of  the  Virgin,  leave  it  sticking  in  him. 
He  will  live  a  little  longer  and  suffer  more." 

Scarabini  nodded  and  went  out.  Bettina  went 
on  sorting  indivia.  Guido's  Maria  was  not  ill. 
She  had  taken  little  Guido  and  gone  to  the  square 
with  her  husband  to  see  the  bishop.  In  due  time, 
Gracia  came  back,  announcing  that  the  doctor 
would  come  at  once.  Bettina  handed  her  a  radish 
and  she  gave  a  bite  to  each  of  her  playmates 
and  finished  the  remainder  herself,  leaves  and  all. 


GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  MAN         233 

Then  the  girls  played  "  Lazy  Mary,"  and  Bettina 
went  on  sorting  salad. 

The  band  was  playing  on  the  square,  and  the 
warm  glow  of  hundreds  of  incandescent  lamps 
greeted  Burroughs's  eyes  as  he  approached  on  his 
way  to  Guido's.  From  end  to  end  of  the  open 
space  before  the  church  the  festoons  of  light  were 
hung,  and  the  church  itself  was  arched  with  lights 
from  entrance  to  towers,  where  the  great  twin 
crosses  flamed  against  the  dark  sky.  Here  and 
there,  about  the  square,  strings  of  Chinese  lanterns 
decorated  the  fronts  of  the  houses,  and  scarcely  a 
dwelling  failed  to  have  a  display  of  some  kind. 
Brigandi,  the  confectioner,  had  decorated  his  shop 
window  with  wreaths  of  paper  roses  and  a  group 
of  candles  stuck  into  bottles.  The  background 
was  a  judiciously  selected  exhibit  of  his  wares,  and 
all  the  evening  he  did  a  brisk  trade  in  sweets.  Di 
Rocco,  the  banker,  burned  red  lights,  and  flung  to 
the  breeze  his  huge  bandiera  d*  Italia.  As  the 
wind  stirred  the  folds  of  the  beloved  flag,  many 
a  dark  eye  in  the  crowd  below  grew  moist,  and 
visions  of  vineyards  and  olive  groves  shut  out  the 
little  square.  The  pavements  were  crowded. 
Every  one  seemed  happy.  Men  slapped  each 
other  upon  the  shoulders,  knocked  off  each  other's 
caps,  and  indulged  in  other  light-hearted  banter 


234  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

and  horse  play.  Women  tossed  their  babies,  and 
laughed  to  see  them  laugh.  Boys  and  girls  pushed 
their  lively  way  through  the  crowd,  receiving  a 
good-natured  cuff,  now  and  then,  for  their  rough- 
ness. Wrinkled  old  women  sat  in  the  doorways 
gossiping ;  old  men  smoked  on  the  curbings,  and 
lovers  drew  close  together  upon  the  shadowy  edges 
of  the  square. 

In  front  of  the  parochial  house  the  crowd  was 
densest,  for  it  was  understood  that  the  bishop 
would- appear  two  or  three  times  during  the  even- 
ing to  bestow  the  blessing  of  the  church  upon 
those  who  were  present  to  receive  it.  Burroughs 
saw  him  emerge,  bowing  and  smiling.  The  people 
burst  into  cheers  of  enthusiasm,  and  "  Viva  I " 
they  cried,  "  Viva  il  Vescovo  !  "  again  and  again. 
The  bishop  was  a  man  of  benign  and  commanding 
presence.  His  white  hair  was  crowned  by  the  pur- 
ple hat  of  his  office,  and  the  simple  Italian  folks 
did  well  to  love  him,  for  he  had  spent  half  his  life 
in  caring  for  the  interests  of  the  immigrant  people, 
saving  them  from  a  dozen  perils  upon  their  arrival 
in  this  strange  and  wonderful  land.  The  old  man 
smiled,  the  eager  people  nearest  him  crowded  up 
the  steps  to  kiss  his  consecrated  ring,  and  then  the 
slim  hand  was  raised  in  blessing.  For  an  instant 
there  was  a  hush,  as  women  crossed  themselves  and 


GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  MAN          235 

murmured  prayers,  and  men  doffed  their  caps  and 
bowed  their  heads.  Then  the  band  burst  into  a 
noble  chorale  as  the  bishop  reentered  the  house, 
and  the  crowd  fell  back  into  the  square. 

Though  loath  to  leave  the  scene,  Burroughs 
threaded  his  way  across  the  square.  Here  and 
there  in  the  groups  of  chattering  men  and  women 
he  would  hear  the  word  "  dottore"  as  he  passed. 
Now  and  then  a  friendly  head  was  nodded  in  his 
direction.  Then  he  turned  down  into  Benediction 
Alley,  the  darkness  in  front  of  him,  the  blaze  of 
light  at  his  back. 

Suddenly  something  fell  against  him.  He  heard 
a  groan,  and  turned  quickly.  A  man  lay  in  a 
miserable  heap  just  behind  him,  and  two  Italians 
were  struggling  with  something  just  beyond.  They 
were  Carbone  and  Guido.  Burroughs  did  not  see 
the  man  with  whom  they  grappled.  He  stooped 
over  the  groaning  heap  at  his  feet.  The  crowd 
shut  in  around  him. 

"  Stand  back  !  "  he  cried,  fiercely,  and  his  word 
was  obeyed.  The  lights  of  the  illumination  shone 
in  upon  the  white  face,  which  Burroughs  lifted  up 
toward  the  fresh  night  air.  Then  he  found  him- 
self trembling  strangely,  for  the  face  he  saw  was 
that  of  John  Maxon. 

The  bishop  was  standing  on  the  parochial  steps 


236  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

and  beckoning.  Burroughs  saw  this  through  a 
sort  of  mist.  Then  he  realized  that  Guido  was 
helping  him  to  lift  the  wounded  man,  and  together 
they  bore  him  within  the  residence.  The  parish 
priest  led  them  into  a  quiet  room,  and  they  laid 
Maxon  upon  a  couch.  An  Italian  doctor  from  the 
crowd  had  entered  with  them,  and  he  pulled  out 
bottles  and  gave  a  stimulant,  and  staunched  the 
wound  in  Maxon's  breast,  while  Burroughs  stood 
by  as  helpless  as  if  he  had  never  heard  of 
medicines. 

As  soon  as  he  dared,  Guido  spoke  excitedly,  and 
with  furious  gestures. 

"  Bad  Italiano  come  behind-a  wit'  stillett'  to 
kill-a  dottore.  Dees  man-a  jump  quick-a !  Knife 
stick-a  een  'eem.  You  understan'  ?  " 

Burroughs  could  hardly  comprehend. 

"  To  stab  me  ?  "  he  asked,  slowly.  "  A  man  was 
going  to  stab  me  ?  " 

"  Yes-a,  yes-a,"  reiterated  Guido.  "  Bad  Ita- 
liano come-a  so —  still-a,  still-a.  Dottore  no  see. 
Dees  man  see  an'  jump.  I  see ;  Carbone  see. 
We  hold-a  quick  zee  man.  My  God!  It  eez 
Scarabini !  " 

As  if  the  muscles  had  suddenly  relaxed,  Maxon's 
eyes  opened.  They  were  not  the  blank  eyes  of  the 
dead,  and  they  turned  toward  Burroughs. 


GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  MAN         237 

"  Years  I  have  loved  you,"  the  faint  voice 
said.  "  I  came  to  you,  and  found  you  poor.  I 
could  not  help  you.  You  have  helped  me.  The 
man  speaks  the  truth.  Somebody  came  behind. 
Thank  God  I  was  in  time.  .  .  The  debt  is  part 
paid  .  .  .  Doctor!  Doctor!  Where  are  you?  — 
Don't  leave  me.  .  .  .  We  .  .  .  will  .  .  .  fight  it 
.  .  .  out  .  .  .  together.  You  have  her  eyes.  .  .  . 
I  was  not  mistaken  in  you  ...  so  good  ...  so 
kind  ...  so  ..." 

The  voice  trailed  off  into  silence.  The  eyelids 
snapped  downward,  and  Philip  Burroughs  knelt 
with  his  arms  about  a  worn-out,  wounded  body. 
One  thought  surged  through  his  mind :  "  He  died 
for  me,  he  died  for  me."  Then  the  tears  came 
and  blotted  the  dead  face  from  his  sight. 

Guido  crossed  himself,  and  tiptoed  out  of  the 
room.  He  made  a  genuflexion  to  the  bishop  as  he 
passed  the  drawing-room,  and  went  out  on  the 
steps.  The  square  was  in  an  uproar.  Women 
were  running  to  and  fro,  crying  and  wringing 
their  hands.  Boys  and  men  were  crowding  around 
the  patrol  wagon,  eager  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
prisoner,  a  struggling  young  man,  who  fought 
fiercely  for  his  freedom.  Carbone  was  in  the 
wagon,  going  to  the  station  house  as  a  witness, 
and  as  he  emerged  from  the  parochial  house, 


238  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

Guido  was  taken  in  charge  by  the  police  for  the 
same  purpose. 

The  news  of  the  attempted  attack  upon  Bur- 
roughs spread  quickly  through  the  crowd,  and 
when,  fifteen  minutes  later,  he  appeared  in  the 
doorway,  a  great  shout  of  joy  went  up  from  the 
square  below.  Coming  from  the  hush  and  awe  of 
the  death  room,  he  stood  as  one  dazed,  looking 
down  upon  the  sea  of  faces  crowded  toward  the 
steps  where  he  stood.  Then  he  heard  cries  :  men, 
women,  and  children  calling  "  Viva  Dottore  I " 
and  "  Bravo  I  Bravo  !  Bravo  I  "  It  was  the  first 
time  Burroughs  had  ever  experienced  the  thrill  of 
eager  eyes  upturned,  expectant,  to  his  own.  A  new 
sensation  surged  over  him  as  he  looked  down  upon 
the  tumult  of  swarthy  faces,  and  heard  the  vivas 
ringing  for  him  as  they  had  rung  for  the  bishop  so 
short  a  time  before.  In  some  way  his  eyesight 
seemed  very  keen,  so  that  he  could  distinguish  the 
faces  of  people  in  the  crowd  who  had  come  to  him 
for  help  in  times  past ;  people  whose  interests  he 
had  made  his  own.  There  was  Forti,  the  fruit 
dealer,  whom  he  had  brought  through  the  typhoid 
fever ;  there  was  young  Vincenzio  Broglio,  whom 
he  had  got  into  the  Convalescents'  Hospital  after 
great  difficulty ;  there  was  Pastorelli's  wife,  with 
her  apron  at  her  eyes ;  there  was  Maria,  holding 


GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  MAN         239 

up  little  Guido  on  one  arm,  and  waving  her  free 
hand  toward  him  ;  there  was  the  wife  of  Razzetti, 
whose  dying  baby  he  had  christened.  For  an 
instant,  too,  came  a  vision  of  the  little  white  house 
on  the  quiet  street.  But  it  faded,  and  the  eager, 
loving  faces  surged  in  upon  his  sight.  Then  he 
understood ;  they  were  the  reality,  the  other  was 
the  dream.  The  band  crashed  out  the  "  Imperial 
March,"  the  people  cheered  and  clapped  their 
hands,  and  a  woman,  breaking  from  the  throng, 
rushed  up  the  steps,  dropped  upon  her  knees,  and 
seizing  his  hand,  kissed  it  again  and  again. 

It  was  the  poor,  crazed  mother  of  little  Rosa 
Carbone. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
THE  CRT  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

DAT  dawned  at  last.  At  the  first  trace  of  light 
Burroughs  lifted  his  head  from  his  pillow  for  per- 
haps the  hundredth  time.  His  face  was  haggard, 
his  eyes  were  burning ;  he  shivered  like  a  man 
with  the  ague.  He  rose  and  made  his  toilet  as 
best  he  could.  Then  he  went  into  the  office  and 
sat  down  before  his  desk  in  the  half  light  of  the 
early  summer  morning.  The  struggle  was  over ; 
the  battle  was  fought ;  the  cry  of  the  people  had 
triumphed.  But  the  little  "  back  alley  "  had  been 
a  soul's  Gethsemane  that  night. 

When  it  was  light  enough  to  see,  Burroughs 
wrote  a  letter  to  the  Board  of  Managers  of  St. 
Luke's  accepting  their  proposition.  A  little  later 
he  went  out  and  posted  it.  Then  he  came  back 
to  the  office  and  dozed  at  his  desk. 

After  her  breakfast  La  Signorina  came  out  of 
her  house  to  go  to  the  office  as  usual.  Her  heart 
was  heavy,  for  her  attachment  to  the  interne  was 
very  sincere  and  his  narrow  escape  from  death  and 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  PEOPLE  241 

approaching  departure  from  St.  Luke's  made  her 
sad.  A  child  called  from  a  third-story  window,  — 

"  Signorina  !  Signorina !  My  mother  wants  the 
doctor  ter  vatstinate  my  Carmella  so 's  she  c'n  go 
ter  school  next  fall.  Will  he  go  away  soon  ?  " 

"  He  has  not  yet  gone,"  said  La  Signorina,  not 
looking  up. 

"  What  ?    What  did  yer  say  ?  " 

"  I  say,"  called  the  nurse,  impatiently,  "  he  has 
not  yet  gone,  but  he  will  go  to-morrow." 

"  All  right !  "  called  the  girl. 

Pietro's  wife  was  sweeping  her  sidewalk. 

"  Did  you  hear  how  a  man  did  try  to  kill  U 
dottore  last  night  ?  "  she  said  in  awestricken  tone. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  poor  nurse.  "  You  think  I 
have  no  ears!  There  is  no  other  talk  overnight 
but  il  dottore,  dottore,  dottore  !  " 

"  And  think  you  he  will  go  away  ?  " 

"Certainly.  Will  he  not  hate  all  Italians  be- 
cause of  Scarabini  ?  " 

"  I  think  yes.  But  some  Italians  love  him  very 
much.  Will  he  not  stay  for  them  ?  " 

"  Hush !  "  cried  the  nurse,  turning  away.  "  How 
can  you  expect  it  ?  " 

"  Signorina !  Signorina !  "  a  faint  voice  quavered 
behind  her.  She  turned  about.  It  was  Grand- 
father Monti.  He  had  grown  very  deaf  and  feeble 


242  THE  HEART  OP  THE   DOCTOR 

of  late,  and  was  quite  out  of  breath  from  hurrying 
up  the  hill. 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  "  he  asked,  plaintively,  in  Italian. 
"Is  he  dead?" 

"  No !  "  exclaimed  the  nurse,  putting  her  lips 
close  to  the  old  man's  ear. 

"  The  Virgin  be  praised !  I  heard  only  that  a 
man  struck  at  him  with  a  knife.  Then  they  all 
talked  at  once  and  so  I  could  understand  no  more. 
They  forget  the  old  man  wants  to  hear  the  news. 
—  And  he  is  not  dead  !  " 

His  voice  broke  off  and  the  tears  sprang  into  the 
weak,  old  eyes. 

"  A  poor  man  whom  he  had  befriended,  jumped 
in  and  received  the  blow,"  said  the  nurse,  speaking 
very  distinctly. 

"  Yes !  The  blessed  saints  preserve  their  own ! 
The  doctor  is  a  kind  and  good  young  man.  Never 
too  busy  is  he  to  speak  kindly  to  old  Monti.  He 
knows  not  Italian,  but  he  shakes  my  hand  and  says 
*  Com'  sta  ? '  close  to  my  ear  and  I  hear  him.  Too 
often  the  young  forget  how  lonely  the  old  folks 
grow.  But  he  does  not,  —  the  saints  protect  him !  " 

"  He  has  kind  words  for  all,"  the  nurse  mur- 
mured. "  Good-by,  old  father,  good-by." 

The  old  man  hobbled  off  with  a  smile  like  winter 
sunshine  on  his  seamed  old  face. 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  PEOPLE  243 

"  He  is  alive  —  alive !  "  he  said,  softly.  "  What 
a  night  I  have  passed  thinking  he  was  dead !  " 

Miss  Cutter,  for  some  reason,  had  not  heard  the 
news.  That  Burroughs  was  expecting  to  leave  the 
dispensary  was  the  last  information  about  him 
which  she  had  secured.  As  the  nurse  approached, 
the  old  woman  put  her  head  out  of  the  window. 

"  Lar  Seenyer  Keener  !  Lar  Seenyer  Keener !  " 
she  screamed,  "  what  yer  goin'  ter  do  when  yer 
dar-tory  goes  away  ?  " 

The  nurse  stopped.  "I  not  know,"  she  said, 
almost  sullenly.  "  I  not  want  you  to  talk  of  it. 
I  not  bear  you  say  that  he  go." 

"  What  '11  yer  Eye-talians  do  ?  "  persisted  Miss 
Cutter,  pushing  the  probe. 

"  I  not  know.  I  not  know,"  murmured  the 
nurse  with  a  gesture  of  despair.  "  I  care  not  for 
myself,  but  so  sorry  am  I  for  my  poor  people.  So 
good  has  Doctor  Burr's  been  to  them.  I  cannot 
bear  that  he  go  away." 

She  hurried  to  the  dispensary  door  and  let  her- 
self in.  It  was  very  quiet.  She  looked  into  the 
waiting-room  and  then  into  the  office.  Burroughs 
sat  at  the  desk  with  face  buried  in  his  hands. 

"  Dottore  !  "  exclaimed  the  nurse. 

Burroughs  raised  his  head  and  turned  his  hag- 
gard face  toward  her. 


244 

"My good  friend,"  she  said,  coming  toward  him, 
"  you  cannot  know  how  much  I  do  thank  heaven 
that  you  are  safe." 

"  Thank  you,  Signorina.  It  was  a  strange  ex- 
perience. The  man  who  died  was  Maxon,  you 
know." 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"  He  is  to  be  buried  to-day.  Poor  fellow  !  And 
he  died  for  me." 

There  was  quiet  in  the  room  for  a  moment. 
Then  La  Signorina  said,  — 

"  It  is  well  that  you  stay  no  longer  here.  You 
are  so  sad  and  Spring  Hill  will  be  always  horror 
to  you  now.  It  is  best  .  .  .  but,  Dottore,  how 
sorry  will  be  my  poor  people  .  .  .  and  I,  too. 
You  have  been  like  brother  to  me.  I  not  like  you 
go  'way." 

For  the  first  time  in  many  an  hour  Burroughs 
smiled. 

"  You  dear,  good  soul,"  he  said,  "  I  am  going  to 
stay  here  and  help  you  work  for  your  poor  people. 
I  have  written  to  the  Board  this  morning." 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  she  clasped  it  in  both 
of  hers.  The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"  Dottore,  Dottore,  is  it  true  ?  Ah !  How  much 
have  I  now  for  which  to  thank  heaven  !  " 

They  sat  talking  eagerly  of  new  methods  and 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  PEOPLE  245 

enlarged  work,  and  Burroughs  planned  with  an 
intensity  of  interest  that  was  hysterical.  But  when 
the  nurse  was  gone  and  he  had  started  out  for  the 
serious  work  of  the  day,  the  reaction  came.  The 
morning  seemed  an  interminable  horror;  the  in- 
quest, the  inquisition  of  the  press  representatives, 
the  arrangements  for  Maxon's  burial.  But  it  was 
passed  at  length,  and  Burroughs  was  ready  for  the 
only  tribute  he  could  pay  to  the  man  who  had  died 
that  he  might  live.  The  service  was  held  at  the 
undertaker's  rooms  and  the  mission  worker  from 
the  avenue  read  the  service  for  the  dead.  When 
it  was  over  and  Burroughs  stood  looking  for  the 
last  time  on  the  face  of  the  poor  wreck  whose  de- 
votion had  saved  his  life,  the  undertaker  came  to 
him  quietly  and  handed  him  a  small,  black  locket, 
suspended  from  a  ribbon. 

"  I  found  this  hanging  around  his  neck.  I  saw 
it  was  n't  a  scapula,  so  I  took  it  off,  thinking  you 
might  like  to  have  it." 

Burroughs  took  the  locket  mechanically  and 
opened  it.  Then  he  found  himself  suddenly  very 
attentive,  and  an  exclamation  of  surprise  burst  from 
his  lips.  The  locket  contained  the  portrait  of  a 
beautiful  young  girl,  whose  eyes  strikingly  resem- 
bled his  own  in  their  earnestness  of  expression. 
It  was  the  face  of  Burroughs's  cousin  Caroline, 


246  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

whom  he  had  idolized  in  his  childhood  and  who 
had  been  to  him  a  glorified  saint  since  her  death, 
twenty  years  before.  She  was  an  orphan  and 
lived  in  his  home  like  a  daughter  of  the  house. 
She  used  to  playfully  call  him  her  little  brother, 
and  there  were  some  people  who  never  knew  that 
the  relationship  was  not  that  of  brother  and  sis- 
ter. Confused  memories  filled  Burroughs's  brain ; 
the  dying  words  of  Maxon  sprang  to  his  mind  and 
a  recollection  of  something  he  had  heard  came  back 
to  him :  something  about  some  one  who  had  loved 
his  sister  and  now  loved  him  for  her  sake.  But 
his  brain  was  too  weary  for  consecutive  thought, 
just  then. 

"  You  may  replace  this,"  he  said,  quietly,  as  he 
handed  the  locket  back  to  the  undertaker,  and  then 
he  went  forth,  the  only  mourner  to  follow  Maxon 
to  his  obscure  grave.  He  rode  thither  alone, 
tremulous  and  dazed,  his  soul  benumbed  and  his 
mind  a  chaos.  Caroline,  Maxon,  Margaret ;  the 
living  and  the  dead.  The  dead  were  his  forever. 
Only  the  living  was  denied  him.  The  forces  that 
hampered  him  were  physical ;  the  conventions  that 
thwarted  him  were  material ;  and  life  itself  was 
the  obstacle  which  seemed  to  rear  a  barrier  more 
powerful  than  the  grave. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
AT  THE   END  OF  THE  PIER 

MARGARET  WORTHINGTON  came  up  Spring  Hill 
Street  quickly,  her  head  erect,  her  cheeks  flushed, 
and  her  eyes  alert.  Miss  Cutter,  peeping  from  her 
window,  saw  the  girl  coming. 

"  Hi,  there !  "  the  old  woman  cried ;  "  hi,  there ! 
Be  yer  lookin'  fer  the  doctor?  He  ain't  there. 
He 's  gone  out.  Want  anythin'  special?  " 

Margaret  paused  with  the  eager  look  still  light- 
ing her  face.  Miss  Cutter  inspected  her  with 
care,  deciding  that  she  was  a  pretty  looking  girl 
and  "  real  pretty  behaved,  too,"  she  told  La  Signo- 
rina  afterward. 

"  I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Burroughs  on  a  matter  of 
business,"  she  said,  in  her  well-bred  way.  "  Can 
you  tell  me  when  he  will  return  ?  " 

"  Wai,  no,  I  can't,  V  what 's  more,  Lar  Seenyer 
Keener,  she's  out  too.  Won't  yer  come  in  'n' 
wait  ?  " 

Margaret  stopped  to  consider  while  Miss  Cut- 
ter's shrewd  old  eyes  bored  in  and  in. 


248  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

"  She  's  his  gal,  I  bet,"  mused  the  old  woman. 

"  No,"  Margaret  said  after  a  moment,  "  I  '11  call 
again  a  little  later  with  the  hope  of  better  success." 

"  All  right,  my  dear,  all  right.  I  can't  say  f er 
sure  when  the  dar-tory  will  come  back.  You  've 
seen,  p'raps,  in  the  paper  that  he  's  had  a  tryin' 
time.  That  runner  fer  the  Spanish  doctor  tried 
ter  kill  him  last  night  and  them  Eye-talians  jest 
went  crazy  over  him." 

"  Yes,"  said  Margaret,  "  I  read  about  it.  Mr. 
Burroughs  had  a  narrow  escape." 

Tears  stood  in  the  old  blue  eyes. 

"  Yes,  miss,"  said  Miss  Cutter,  with  a  gentleness 
few  had  ever  seen  in  her,  "  yes,  it  was  a  narrer 
escape.  Seems  's  if  I  could  n't  er  had  that  good 
little  man  kilt.  But  yer  know,  p'raps,  that  he  's 
goin'  off,  soon  's  he  gradoo-ates.  They  don't  stay 
long  to  St.  Luke's.  Jes'  when  folks  gets  us't  to 
'em,  they  gradoo-ates  V  off  they  goes." 

"  They  are  eager  to  begin  their  life  work,  I  sup- 
pose. But  it  is  hard  for  the  poor  people,"  Mar- 
garet replied. 

Miss  Cutter  had  wiped  her  tears  aside  and  was 
her  picturesque  self  again. 

"  Lor'  sakes  !  "  she  piped,  as  if  her  momentary 
weakness  must  be  buried  under  a  mountain  of  stri- 
dent talk  ;  "  Lor'  sakes  !  They  hain't  been  no 


AT  THE  END  OF  THE  PIER  249 

doctor  here  ter  St.  Luke's  that  was  as  good  ter  the 
poor  folks  as  the  dar-tory  —  too  good,  I  says,  fer 
them  dirty  Eye-talians.  He  '11  trot  'round  all  day, 
mebbe,  in  the  rain,  V  come  draggin'  home,  wet  as 
sop,  and  a-luggin'  that  eveiiastin'  little  bag  er 
medicine,  ser  tired  he  can't  hardly  walk  up  the  hill 
—  I  've  seen  him  —  and  what  '11  I  hear  next  but 
that  he 's  got  some  sick  Eye-talian  child  in  his  own 
bed,  and  him  a-sittin'  up  all  night  with  it.  Ask 
him  about  it  'n'  he  '11  say  '  Oh,  I  'm  studyin'  the 
case.'  You  remember  one  uv  them  times  ?  You 
was  the  lady  what  helped  take  care  er  one  er  them 
children." 

Margaret  nodded  assent. 

"  Wai,  I  just  know  it 's  more  'n  ter  study  the 
case  he  does  them  things.  It 's  cause  he  loves 
them  dirty  critters.  He  'd  rather  be  good  ter 
some  Dago  than  ter  eat,  er  sleep,  er  have  a  new 
suit  er  clothes  —  'n'  he  needs  one  very  bad,  I  've 
been  a-noticin'.  Oh,  he 's  good,  he 's  good !  He  's 
about  the  only  one  I  ever  knew  that  wan't  makin' 
a  show  er  doin'  good  fer  what  he  could  get  out 
uv  it." 

"  I  thank  you  very  much  for  what  you  have  said 
about  Mr.  Burroughs,"  said  Margaret,  earnestly. 
"  He  is  all  and  more  than  you  have  thought  him." 

Miss  Cutter  looked  shrewdly  at  the  young  wo- 


250  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

man.  Then  she  beckoned  with  her  thin  forefinger, 
and,  leaning  out  of  the  window,  whispered  in  the 
ear  Margaret  turned  toward  her,  — 

"  Say,  be  you  his  gal  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  exclaimed  Margaret,  "  I  am  his  girl." 
And  she  spoke  with  the  proud  confidence  a  woman 
might  feel  whose  right  it  was  to  say,  "  I  am  the 
queen !  " 

"  I  thought  so,  'n'  a  nice,  pretty  lady  you  are, 
too.  God  bless  yer  both.  I  wish  yer  good  luck. 
'N'  I'll  tell  yer  where  I  'spect  yer '11  find  that 
good  feller  uv  yours.  He  's  down  on  the  pier  be- 
yond the  park.  Went  down  fer  a  breath  er  fresh 
air  after  supper,  he  told  me  as  he  went  by.  Oh, 
yes,  he 's  a  gentleman.  He  always  stops  ter  say  a 
pleasant  word  ter  me  as  he  passes." 

Miss  Cutter  held  out  her  hand  and  Margaret 
pressed  it  warmly.  Then  she  crossed  the  street 
and  went  through  the  burial  ground  and  down  over 
the  terraces  toward  the  pier.  The  boys  were  play- 
ing ball  on  the  level  near  the  water's  edge,  but 
they  stopped  to  let  the  lady  pass  and  she  walked 
out  on  the  pier.  Many  eyes  followed  her,  as  she 
made  her  way  along  the  promenade,  but  she  was 
quite  unconscious  that  she  attracted  attention. 
She  saw  Burroughs  at  the  end  of  the  pier  and  she 
fixed  her  eyes  upon  her  lover. 


AT  THE  END  OF  THE  PIER  251 

After  the  feverish  struggle  of  the  previous  night 
and  the  painful  tasks  of  the  day,  Burroughs  had 
come  at  sunset  to  quiet  brain  and  nerve  with  the 
touch  of  the  salt  sea  breeze.  He,  too,  had  walked 
through  the  old  graveyard,  envying  the  sleepers 
for  whom  the  stress  and  heartbreak  of  the  world 
was  over,  yet  revolting  against  his  own  thought  as 
he  remembered  how  narrow  had  been  the  margin 
which  had  separated  him  from  the  silent  ones  less 
than  twenty-four  hours  before. 

On  the  terraces  the  children  had  shouted  after 
him,  running  up  to  greet  him,  and  he  had  shaken 
all  the  grimy  hands  with  a  new  heartiness.  On 
the  pier  the  Italian  folk  were  catching  the  breeze  ; 
fathers  and  mothers  with  babies  in  arms,  and  little 
ones  toddling  to  and  fro,  or  sticking  their  tiny 
faces  between  the  bars  of  the  railing  to  look  down 
at  the  water.  Some  of  these  people  had  put  them- 
selves in  his  way,  and  shyly  smiled ;  some,  bolder, 
had  called  his  name  and  waved  their  hands.  To 
all  of  them  he  had  nodded  good  -  naturedly  or 
spoken  a  word  of  greeting.  Thus  he  had  walked 
onward,  as  if  in  the  presence  of  his  new-found 
fate,  till  at  last  he  reached  the  extreme  end  of  the 
pier. 

How  beautiful  the  water  was,  and  how  keenly 
he  enjoyed  the  salt  air !  It  must  be  much  to  him 


252  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

now,  this  city-circled  harbor,  for  between  it  and 
the  towers  of  Santa  Maria  he  was  to  toil  for  many 
a  day,  and  toil  alone.  He  knew  now  that  it  was 
better  Margaret  had  been  denied  him ;  better, 
though  every  day's  labor  must  end  in  a  dream  of 
her.  He  could  never  have  asked  her  to  share  this 
dull,  repulsive  round  of  duty  with  him,  to  leave 
comfort  and  refinement  to  make  a  home  for  him 
here  in  this  wilderness  of  dirt  and  poverty.  He 
was  glad  that  he  had  not  seen  her  all  these 
months ;  glad,  too,  for  that  afternoon  when  he 
heard  her  singing  in  the  little  room  at  St.  Luke's. 
Her  voice  he  would  bear  with  him  in  his  heart  to 
the  end  of  his  life  —  and  as  he  mused  thus,  he 
heard  it  at  his  side. 

"Phil,  dear!" 

"  Margaret ! "  And  then,  after  a  pause,  "  Why 
have  you  come  here  ?  " 

"  Because  I  love  you,  Philip ;  because  you  have 
been  so  near  to  death,  and  were  alone.  Oh,  Phil, 
if  I  had  lost  you  !  " 

"But  your  father?" 

"  Listen,  Phil.  Father  came  home  this  after- 
noon and  found  me  crying  over  the  newspaper. 
He  put  his  arms  around  me  tightly,  and  said,  '  My 
little  girl  shall  not  suffer  any  longer.  Your  lover 
is  a  good  man.  Go  to  him.'  Then  he  told  me 


AT  THE  END  OF  THE  PIER  253 

how  all  the  time  since  he  sent  you  away  he  has 
been  watching  you,  and  has  heard  nothing  but 
good  of  you.  And  because  you  have  kept  your 
word  to  him,  he  is  glad  to  let  me  keep  my  promise 
to  you.  Why,  Philip  I  Are  you  not  glad  to  see 
me?" 

Burroughs's  face  was  white  and  set;  he  drew 
back,  and  stood  gazing  at  his  companion  with  an 
unutterable  agony  in  his  eyes. 

"  Margaret,"  he  said  slowly,  "  if  you  knew  — 
Margaret  —  Margaret !  " 

Then  he  spoke  more  calmly,  holding  the  rail 
with  tightly  clinched  fingers,  as  if  to  steady 
himself. 

"  Margaret,  I  have  reached  a  new  decision  about 
my  work.  I  am  not  going  to  that  place  Raymond 
picked  out  for  me.  I  am  going  to  stay  here  at 
St.  Luke's.  They  want  me  to  build  up  the  work. 
They  will  give  me  fair  pay  and  better  lodgings. 
So  I  am  to  remain. 

"  I  cannot  explain  how  I  reached  this  decision. 
I  discovered  what  I  must  do  last  night  in  the 
square  when  the  people  all  looked  up  at  me  as  if 
they  cared  for  me.  I  cannot  explain  it  to  you ;  I 
cannot  make  you  understand,  but  I  know  that  my 
work  for  the  present  is  here,  rather  than  in  a 
pleasanter  place.  After  all,  in  spite  of  the  wealth 


254  THE  HEART  OF  THE  DOCTOR 

our  family  once  had,  we  sprung  from  humble 
beginnings.  I  belong  to  the  common  people,  and 
my  place  is  with  them." 

They  stood  close  together  now,  and  were  silent, 
he  thinking  savagely  of  himself  for  having  stated 
the  case  so  clumsily,  she  feeling  that  his  closing 
words  had  been  the  loftiest  she  had  ever  heard  him 
utter. 

"I  shall  never  degrade  you  by  asking  you  to 
join  me  in  these  surroundings,"  he  went  on,  at 
length ;  "  so  you  must  go  back  to  your  own  circle, 
and  forget  me.  It  has  been  terribly  hard  for  me 
to  relinquish  the  hope  of  having  you  for  mine, 
some  day,  and  the  sight  of  you  now  is  almost  more 
than  I  can  bear.  But  duty  is  duty,  and  I  must 
face  it.  If  only  —  if  only  I  might  kiss  you  just 
once  more,  Margaret,  darling  !  " 

The  harbor  voices  were  calling ;  the  shrill 
soprano  of  tug  and  tender,  the  deeper  tones  of 
ferry  and  steamboat.  Behind  the  lovers  the  sun- 
set flamed  gold  and  red,  glorifying  all  the  dingy 
region  which  was  Burroughs's  destiny.  They  two 
were  facing  eastward,  where  the  vapory  masses  of 
purple-blue  cloud,  with  a  flash  here  and  there  of  a 
rosy  sail,  held  a  nameless  charm  hardly  secondary 
to  the  western  glory.  The  blue  lights  of  arc-lamps 
flashed  out  along  shore;  the  laughing  voices  of 


AT  THE  END  OF  THE  PIER  255 

children  fluttered  in  the  air;  the  bells  of  Santa 
Maria  tolled  slowly  for  vespers. 

Where  the  river  and  harbor  met,  two  tugs,  mak- 
ing their  last  trip  for  the  night,  pulled  a  long, 
low-lunging  line  of  mud-scows  to  the  dumping 
space  in  the  lower  bay. 

"  See,  dear  heart,"  Margaret  said,  softly,  and 
her  tone  thrilled  him,  so  expressive  was  it  of  love 
and  trust  and  holy  peace ;  "  see  the  work  they  are 
doing.  How  heavy  and  how  ugly  it  is !  But  it  is 
not  hard  for  them  because  —  they  are  together." 

And  the  earth  and  sea  and  sky  that  Burroughs 
saw  were  tinted  with  the  radiant  hues  of  Paradise. 


Ekctretyptd  and  printed  by  H.  O.  Hougkion  &•  Co. 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.  A. 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  ; 


A     000125453     1 


